


Velle

by DeHeerKonijn, Roselightfairy



Series: Velle [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Biological Imperative, Crack Treated Seriously, Discussion of Consent Issues, Elf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, In various positions and configurations, Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, M/M, Messenger Ravens, Mirkwood has no comprehensive sex education, Tired Elf OCs, explicit images, mom friend, text and images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Velle(Latin): to want.“It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete.” -J.R.R. Tolkien, “Laws and Customs Among the Eldar”For the whole year they have been living and working in Minas Tirith, Legolas and Gimli have postponed their marriage – planning to wait on even their elven wedding until the conditions are right for the dwarven ceremony as well. But on the eve of their parting to Ithilien and Aglarond, faced with the prospect of an indefinite separation, they decide they can wait no longer. They want to be wed now, so they can part as true husbands – and so they can finally satisfy long-deferred desires.To both of their distress – and the great amusement of Legolas’s companions – they are soon to learn that some desires are not so easily deferred . . . and that the formation of the marital bond is only the beginning.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Velle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814452
Comments: 334
Kudos: 974





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born from a headcanon DeHeerKonijn has had for a while, based on the Tolkien canon that for elves, sex = marriage – and the ensuing fanon that if this is the case, elves must be biologically demisexual and not experience sexual attraction until they fall in love. The natural extension of that, though, is: after hundreds or thousands of years of no sex drive, how hard must it hit when it finally does?
> 
> The two of us started talking about this idea, and after several delightful conversations (and LOTS of laughter), this collaboration was born! What follows is the result of our collective creative effort, several weeks’ worth of writing, drawing, drafting, picking, and lots of giggling: a story that combines both of our preferred genres and mediums. The writing was done by Roselightfairy, the drawing by DeHeerKonijn, but we were both deeply involved in all parts of the process. Neither form takes precedence over the other, and both are necessary to tell the story. (If you are reading with a screen reader, we’ve included alt text for all the images that we hope is sufficient, but please let us know if anything is left out!)
> 
> We did not intend for this story to be as substantial as it has become, but over the course of creating, it bloomed into something bigger and more rewarding than either of us anticipated, and we’re thrilled to be able to share it with you.

Their last evening in Minas Tirith was a solemn affair.

They had been feasted and toasted and celebrated, their contributions to the city’s new vibrance complimented in words (and gold) befitting their worth – but that had been last night. Tonight was for the last of the packing and preparing, and the last privacy for goodbyes before they all departed in the morning: the dwarves north to Rohan and the elves east, on the way to Ithilien.

And now, in the small house they had shared for the last year in Aragorn’s city, Gimli and Legolas ate their simple supper in silence.

They sat not at the table but on the rug before the fire, eating dried meat and bread from the travel rations they would both be using for the next few days. Gimli had suggested cooking a meal for their last night, but now he was glad they had no extra food to worry about, and little to clean. And was glad they could eat on the floor instead of at the table, where he could better feel the warm weight of Legolas leaning against his side, hair spilling over Gimli’s shoulder.

Ah, but he would miss this.

As if in response to Gimli’s own thoughts, Legolas took a breath as if to speak, his side expanding against Gimli – but then merely let it out in a long, empty rush. Gimli set his plate aside and turned towards him, sliding an arm behind his back. “What is it?”

Legolas only shook his head. “Never mind.”

“If you would say something, please do it now,” said Gimli. “Before we” –

Legolas’s mouth tightened in helpless unhappiness. “You know all I would say,” he murmured, setting his own plate aside to press his forehead against Gimli’s and take his face between both hands. His hands were so different from those of a dwarf, Gimli thought, not for the first time – lighter, a ghost over his skin rather than the rough skin and sturdy clasp he had known from other dwarves in the past. But the deft, callused fingers belied their delicacy – these too were worker’s hands, and anyway there would never be another dwarf again.

Gimli tilted his head up, asking without words, and Legolas obliged him with a kiss: the lightest brush of lips, then another, then another. Their mouths clung at the last kiss, but Legolas pulled away without deepening it. “You know it already,” he repeated, “and I would not say it again. I would simply – be here with you, on this last night.”

Indeed, Gimli knew. He knew it all: the love, the hope – and the yearning tempered with reason, the regret for what they could not yet have. The delicious anticipation of the future that awaited them mingled with the sorrow of separation, the bittersweet longing for all that was not yet within their grasp.

He sighed as well and rested his head against Legolas’s shoulder. “Then be here,” he murmured.

What few words they exchanged beyond that were simple practicalities: washing their dishes; packing up the last of their things. Despite their conversation, part of Gimli felt that they should be using the time with more intent – as if the situation would change if they took full advantage of their last evening to have some meaningful conversation; to do something symbolic of the time they had spent together. But then, Legolas had been right; there was little left to say – and anyway there was a different pleasure in this: the quiet joy of shared domestic tasks; the simple satisfaction of inhabiting the same space, in a way they would not again for who knew how long.

Gimli knew why they were waiting – knew, indeed, that it had been his idea. But somehow in this moment, in this evening, it felt that even the beauty and promise of Aglarond in the future could not compare to the reality of now, and he wished they could stay here forever.

They performed their usual evening ablutions side by side: washing faces, cleaning teeth, unbinding one another’s hair for sleep. This was one of the intimacies Legolas had allowed him, for all they were not yet wed, and Gimli could not resist letting his hands linger among the silk-smooth tresses, occasionally teasing Legolas with a gentle stroke to the earlobe. The sounds that escaped Legolas whenever he did that made something in Gimli’s belly clench, but he fought down the feeling and reminded himself to be good. Reminded himself to respect Legolas’s traditions the way Legolas had always respected his.

But when they parted at last for the night, exchanging a few more chaste kisses before retiring to their separate rooms, Gimli could not help feeling that the night seemed lonelier than usual – now that it was their last. He lay awake in his bed, watching the play of moonbeams on the enclosing curtains, and imagined how Legolas would part them with a tentative hand, how the mattress would shift beneath him as he slipped beneath the covers . . .

And so it was that when the door to his room creaked open, he almost wondered if the figure in the door was an apparition born of his own wishes.

“Legolas?” he said.

Legolas padded across the room without saying a word, but he drew the curtains apart in a swift, decisive movement far from the hesitance Gimli had imagined. Without saying a word, he perched on the edge of Gimli’s bed, his weight slight but enough to assure Gimli that this was not his imagination.

Gimli sat up – had he forgotten something? Or did Legolas want to talk at last? – opened his mouth to ask, and found his questions swallowed up in a hungry, demanding kiss.

This was not like the kisses they had shared earlier this evening. They had kissed like this only a few times, before realizing that it was not conducive to their decision to _wait_ , and for a moment, all questions disappeared. One of Gimli’s hands rose to cup the back of Legolas’s neck and pull him in closer; the other fumbled out from beneath the bedcovers to settle against the elf’s waist, and he abandoned all thought for some small eternity.

When Legolas pulled back and coherent thought returned, Gimli could only repeat, “Legolas?” As though saying his name again would somehow answer a question Gimli could not find the words to ask.

“Tonight,” said Legolas.

Gimli blinked. “Tonight what?”

“Marry me,” said Legolas. His face was half illuminated, half cast in shadow by a stray moonbeam peeking through the window, but Gimli thought his eyes had never looked so bright. “Become my husband.”

Gimli’s stomach fluttered, beset by a cloud of moths. He could hardly wrap his mind around Legolas’s words, and yet when he spoke, his voice sounded steady, almost heavy with an unexpected calm. “Tonight?”

“I know why you want to wait.” Legolas’s next words came out in a rush, as though eager to assure Gimli that this was no thoughtless decision. “I know, and I understand, and I would never dishonor your traditions or your desires, but” – He slid to his knees, so that his upturned face was just a breath below Gimli’s own, and laid his hands in Gimli’s lap. “But this ceremony is for me to give, and I do not want to wait any longer. I would ride to Ithilien tomorrow with you as my husband and the memory of our wedding night to carry with me.”

Gimli gazed down at him: at his hair, streaming loose down his back in a show of intimate vulnerability that Legolas shared with only those who knew him best; at his gleaming eyes, the color leached from them by the night and the moonlight; at the open, earnest face that could sustain no deception. At his posture, kneeling like a supplicant, his hands open on Gimli’s knees – and unbidden, Gimli’s own hands drifted down to hold them.

He had not expected this, or had not thought he did – and yet, now that Legolas was here before him, was it really so unexpected after all?

“You are sure?” he said, lacing his fingers with Legolas’s, marveling as always at how well the fine-boned hands fit against his own.

“I am sure,” promised Legolas. “I want this; I want to be yours.” He hesitated. “But only if you are certain you want it as well.”

And at that, Gimli could not help but laugh. “I have wanted you every night I lay in this bed alone,” he said, and he drew Legolas up beside him. “At least now, on this last night, I may do more than dream.”

“I will endeavor to be sweeter than the dreams, then,” said Legolas, somehow sly and shy at the same time.

Gimli laughed again, and silenced him.


	2. Chapter 2

For long hours, as dusk deepened into night and night gave way to the early grey light of dawn, Legolas lay beside Gimli’s sleeping figure, his body and spirit alike awash with bliss. For all the glow of contentment, he could not relax into rest. Every time he tried, his heart would speed up as the memories flooded through him again: Gimli’s body flush against his own; Gimli’s face when Legolas had taken him in his mouth; the heady rush of pride and satisfaction that he could so well please his husband. Legolas’s thoughts lingered at that last image – Gimli’s head thrown back, breath punching from his throat, soft bliss in his eyes when he looked at Legolas after – and rest, he finally decided, was hopeless.

Gimli, for his part, had lasted barely long enough to murmur a dazed “I love you” into Legolas’s shoulder before sinking into deep slumber. Legolas had no heart to wake him, so he spent the night gazing fondly on Gimli’s sleeping figure, sometimes unable to stop his straying fingers from wandering over warm tattooed skin, powerful shoulders, thick coarse hair. But his husband did not stir, except to murmur sleepily and curl closer.

His husband. Still Legolas could hardly believe the word.

The morning dawned slow and gentle, as if it shared Legolas’s reluctance for the night to end – or as if Arien herself had deigned to show him the kindness of delaying her journey across the sky. He waited as long as he could, watching the sunrise filter through the windows until gold light burnished Gimli’s beard to a copper glow, but at last he could delay no longer. With a long sigh, he pushed himself up until he was braced over Gimli’s body, walking his fingers up Gimli’s chest and through his beard, and leaned down until his lips brushed Gimli’s own.

“Beloved . . .” he breathed against Gimli’s lips. “Time to awake.”

Gimli stirred and grumbled something in no language Legolas could recognize; he could not help smiling even as he brushed a kiss over Gimli’s mouth. “The sun is awake already, and so should we be. No one may lie long abed this morning, not even new-made husbands the morning after their wedding night.”

A faint smile formed on Gimli’s lips as well. “Mmm,” he said. Without opening his eyes, he tilted his head up until their lips made contact again. One of his hands crept behind Legolas’s head, pulling him closer until Legolas gave in with a sigh and melted against him, his skin heating everywhere they touched, as though warmed from within. Gimli rolled him onto his side, one hand coming to rest on Legolas’s hip, and Legolas felt he could dissolve into this moment and be content for a timeless eternity.

When Gimli at last pulled away, his dark eyes danced. “It was no dream, then,” he murmured. “I have yearned for it so long, I could not help but wonder.”

Legolas _wriggled_ in response, unable to stay still under Gimli’s warm regard. “No dream,” he confirmed. “I hope you are pleased with the reality.”

One of Gimli’s hands glided up and down Legolas’s body, rough calluses grazing his bed-warmed skin and sending heat racing through Legolas’s blood everywhere it passed; the other hand slid into the hair at the nape of his neck and scratched at his scalp until Legolas feared his eyes would roll back in pleasure. “Nothing could please me more,” murmured Gimli, and pressed a whiskery kiss to Legolas’s neck.

Legolas would have happily stayed there all day and all night and longer, but the sun was rising ever higher, light through their windows more insistent, and - much to both of their regret - they both had people to meet.

But Gimli insisted they take a few moments at least so he could braid Legolas’s hair.

“It is a dwarven wedding custom,” he said, “but although we have not yet exchanged the gifts or spoken the vows, I will mark you as my husband - for I know your customs are no less true than my own. Sit up.”

Legolas had no desire to untangle himself from Gimli’s body, but for such a purpose, he would make the concession. Still he sighed in regret as he moved out from beneath the sheets to sit on the edge of the bed – and then again in pleasure as Gimli rose onto his knees behind him, so their heights were close enough for him to braid. Gimli was not quite touching him, not near enough for his beard to tangle in Legolas’s hair, but Legolas could feel the warmth of him; he swayed back, hoping to feel Gimli’s bare body pressed full against him.

Gimli chuckled. “None of that,” he said, tugging gently on Legolas’s hair. Legolas grumbled, but subsided and waited as patiently as he could – even if the gentle motions of Gimli’s hands in his hair were nearly enough to undo him entirely. He hummed instead, letting his bittersweet happiness well up within him as song, luxuriating in the pleasure of sitting in his husband’s bed and Gimli’s skillful fingers – ah, and skillful they were indeed – in his hair, and pretending that the moment could last forever.

Finally, Gimli let his hands settle onto Legolas’s shoulders. “Perfect,” he murmured against Legolas’s ear. Legolas shivered at the gust of Gimli’s breath over his skin, pleasant tingles awakening against his neck and scalp, and reached up to feel.

Gimli had done Legolas’s braids as usual, but he had added another in the underside of the hair at the nape of his neck: thick, knotlike patterns, each section of hair actually pulled under and through. Gimli placed his hands over Legolas’s own and guided his fingers to the center of each knot. “By rights there would be gems set here,” he said, “but I know you would merely lose them gamboling about in the forest, and anyway the perfection of your face needs no adornment. So we shall save them for the formal occasions, hmm?”

Legolas pressed a hand to his face in an attempt to cool it. “Stop,” he protested feebly, but Gimli only smiled and kissed him, long and soft, sucking gently on Legolas’s tender lower lip until Legolas had to remind himself how to breathe.

“Now you must do the same for me,” said Gimli. “Shall I demonstrate the pattern for you again?”

“No – no, I have it,” said Legolas, still breathless. He might not have the dwarven gift for craft, but he had been working with ropes and snares since his childhood, and he could replicate any pattern just from feeling it. “Here, at the nape?” He reversed their positions and separated out a section of Gimli’s hair.

“A bit to the left – perfect.” Gimli settled against him and Legolas lost himself in the feeling of the braiding: Gimli’s coarse, curly hair twined between his fingers, glowing copper in the morning light; Gimli’s broad shoulders, so perfect to brace his forearm against; Gimli’s hips, wedged between his thighs . . .

He finished the braid and pressed a kiss to one of the stars inked on Gimli’s bare shoulder, letting his lips linger there. He twitched his hips, just a bit – unable to entirely resist the surging, rocking movement inside him, so reminiscent of the way they had moved against one another last night –

Gimli squirmed back against him in response, and then they both stopped for a moment to look out the window at the advancing sun.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Gimli let out a long sigh.

“Well,” he said. “I suppose we could fit in _once_ more . . .”

* * *

Again, Legolas would have lingered, but duty called them more urgently than before, and they contented themselves with a quick tumble before finally, regretfully, rousing themselves from bed and dressing. But when they finally left the house, laden with their bags, and bidding it a last fond farewell, they both hesitated.

“I do not . . .” Legolas did not know exactly how he would have finished the sentence, only that he was a sunflower and Gimli sunlight, and it was just as impossible for him to turn away.

Gimli squeezed his hand. “I will walk with you a ways.”

The dwarves and elves were not meeting in the same place. Aragorn had already made their official farewells, and would not be seeing them off for the morning’s journey – and there was little sense in departing from the same point, when they were moving in such different directions.

It was perfectly reasonable, of course, and only now did Legolas resent it.

Gimli walked Legolas all the way to where his group of elves had gathered, all clearly long since there and ready to depart. Doubtless the dwarves would be likewise, and Legolas felt momentarily guilty, but still he could not regret his decisions, nor his late start.

Their steps slowed as they approached the group, but no amount of delay could keep them away forever. Their excuses shrank with the distance between them and the company, and at last there was nothing for it.

“Good morrow, Legolas,” said Hadril, the corner of her mouth quirking in a mischievous grin. “We had begun to wonder when you would come to join us. And greetings to you as well, Master Gimli,” she added with a courteous tilt of her head.

Gimli responded in politeness, but Legolas ignored her, turning instead to face Gimli fully and taking both of his hands. “You could come with us to Ithilien,” he said – half jesting, but if Gimli had by some miracle agreed, he would have changed his plans in an instant.

Gimli laughed, a little sadly. “And would you leave your people and come to Aglarond?”

Had he asked while they lay in bed together, Legolas might even have abandoned all his plans and said yes. But out here in the open air, he could feel the call of Ithilien, the ravaged beauty that cried out for healing, the duty that Legolas had agreed to with joy in his heart.

“You are right, of course,” he said, leaning down. “And I am sure your gardens of stone will bloom beneath your loving hands.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how he had sounded, but he had no time even to blush before Gimli laughed and pulled him down for a kiss.

Legolas sighed into Gimli’s mouth, leaning down and winding his arms around Gimli’s neck; Gimli’s body was an inferno and Legolas was molten metal against him. For that one blissful, eternal moment, Legolas felt he could dissolve into Gimli’s arms and be held safely for the rest of his life – and when at last he peeled himself away, he was forced to brace himself on Gimli’s shoulders until he could find his balance again.

“I miss you already,” he murmured, not caring that all his companions could hear him.

“And I you.” Gimli’s hand still rested at the nape of Legolas’s neck; he twisted his fingers through the hair until he could take hold of the new braid. “But I will write to you as often as I can, and at least I will have the sweetest of memories to sustain me.”

At that, Legolas had to kiss him again, long and deep, lips parting under the gentle pressure of Gimli’s own, his own hands sifting through the mass of curls until he found Gimli’s braid in turn. “I love you,” he whispered against Gimli’s lips. “And I will wait eagerly for your letters. Perhaps you will be finished with your settlement faster than even you can imagine and I will soon be able to visit you there and marvel at your work.”

Gimli chuckled. “If so, you will be the first guest.”

They kissed one more time, long and lingering, before separating at last with a final squeeze of the hands, fingers interlacing and then slipping slowly apart. Every inch of Legolas’s body mourned as Gimli’s touch left it, but he forced himself to be content with a last wave, and with watching Gimli depart into the distance.

Only when Gimli turned a corner out of sight did Legolas finally turn back to the assembled crowd of his friends and companions, many of whom were muffling snickers behind their hands.

“Hush,” Legolas mumbled, and shuffled over to his horse. They had groomed and prepared Arod for him, a kindness that meant he could hardly complain about their teasing, and now Arod stood patiently waiting, whuffing in greeting when Legolas laid a hand on his neck.

They did not hush, of course. “My, Legolas,” said Damion. “Such a demonstration! We had thought you might at least leave _something_ in store for the wedding night!”

Legolas could feel himself turning scarlet; his cheeks, ears, and the back of his neck flooded with heat all at once. He fumbled for something to say, but his silence incriminated him well enough: as one, he could see them realizing it. “Oh,” said Damion at last, weakly. “I see.”

“Last night?” said Faimes, her eyes wide.

Legolas could only nod. What was the use of denying it?

“You decided to” – She broke off.

“You needn’t sound so shocked.” He did not mean to sound so defensive; he tried to soften his tone. “You knew we were betrothed; I merely – I did not want” – He fell silent. How to explain the way their parting had loomed before him, threatening to hollow him out; how he had yearned for at least the memory of a wedding night, the promise of a marriage, to fill it? Those thoughts were for him and Gimli alone.

But perhaps he had made himself clear enough, for Faimes nodded to herself in understanding. “Oh, Legolas,” she said, laughing a little and shaking her head as if in pity. “I am so sorry.”

* * *

_I am so sorry._

He did not ask Faimes what she meant by the words; could do nothing but incline his head and accept her sympathy. He had consigned himself knowingly to this pain, after all; had no one to blame for his yearning but himself.

But then, how could he ever have chosen differently?

Since he had first heard the gulls crying on the shores of Pelargir, Legolas had understood as never before what it meant to be pulled in two directions. He had grown accustomed to the call of the sea, the endless yearning to be elsewhere – and the equal, equally painful longing to stay where he was, to honor his ties to Middle-earth.

Gimli had helped with that. Gimli always helped, in his warmth, in his solid surety. He was so very _here_ , so grounded to Middle-earth that he served as an anchor to keep Legolas grounded here as well, the only thing Legolas could cling to, the only thing powerful enough to hold him here. The choice to wed Gimli, to bind himself to him in that most irrevocable of ways, had been less a decision than an inevitability.

And so it was that Legolas now felt himself torn again – but in a different way.

Half of him was consumed in that distant, aching longing – for Gimli and for the sea at the same time now, somehow, two promised comforts that were out of his grasp – and yet beneath that yearning he still felt a touch of pleasure, like a glow of sunshine – the memory of their wedding night, still alive within him. He was in love! He was separated from his beloved, yes, and he yearned to have Gimli yet by his side, but – he was in love; he was married; he had given himself to the one he loved and Gimli had shared the knowledge of his body with Legolas in turn.

Ah, but he had not imagined it would feel thus, and for all the longing, the wishing Gimli were riding beside or behind him now instead of departing in the opposite direction – for all that, he could not keep the smile off his face. He lost himself in memory as they rode, reliving the night again and again in his mind: the softness of Gimli’s eyes as Legolas pledged himself to him; the warmth of his hands in Legolas’s own, and then the rasp of his calluses against Legolas’s bare skin, in places he had never been touched before. The hoarse wonder in Gimli’s voice as he named Legolas beautiful, skilled, bold – and – and ah, but the memory of that brought a surge of heat between Legolas’s legs; Gimli praising him as beyond his wildest imaginings.

Arod’s gait changed slightly as they turned up a hill, and Legolas found himself pressed harder against his back as he shifted his weight forward to hold on. Only then did he become aware that his fantasies had awakened his body, not only his mind, and the way that his weight shifted against the horse’s back made him instinctively clench his thighs.

Arod started at the motion, and Legolas gasped, murmuring apologies and adjusting his weight as best he could, going nearly rigid against the horse as he tried not to let himself react. But now that he had begun thinking about it, he could not stop, and for all his efforts he could not calm his body down, could not banish the arousal. The fantasies which had at first been a pleasant glow warming his belly heated up into an inferno that scorched through his body, and the motion of riding did not help. It was too reminiscent of the way they had moved against each other, and now he could not stop reliving it: the rolling motion of Gimli’s hips against his own, Gimli’s hands on his waist, in his hair; Gimli’s mouth open in release –

Legolas startled back to himself once more and looked around guiltily, as though the others could see what he was thinking. He had paid little attention to them, lost in his own fantasies, but now he could see that they were all studiously not looking at him, eyes on the road ahead of them, though they were all capable riders and needed to pay little attention.

Capable riders . . . Arod himself had communicated little with him, beyond his reaction moments ago, but Legolas knew he could sense his rider’s distraction. And for all that this sort of thing was natural to animals, he could not help flushing at the thought of the poor horse suffering unintentionally from his rider’s lack of self-control.

He looked up at the sky. The fantasies had evidently sustained him for hours – it was no longer morning but late afternoon, and they were more than halfway to their destination already as the sun journeyed lower and wider in the sky. Their shadows lengthened on the ground, a warning that evening and sunset would soon follow. None of them were opposed to riding into the night, and they had planned to make the journey in one day, arriving in Ithilien late in the night, but –

But surely the horses would make no complaints of a stop for rest, and if they camped for the night and made an early start, they would arrive in Ithilien when it was yet morning, with plenty of daylight to begin their tasks as soon as they arrived. And anyway, Legolas could no longer excuse subjecting Arod to his own indiscretions. Perhaps a break from the motion would help – and perhaps a stop for the night would allow him to rest and calm his thoughts, so he would be better suited to begin work when they arrived in Ithilien.

The best part of riding with elves was that he needed not call them close in order to be heard. “Would anyone be opposed to a stop for the night?” he asked.

“It is scarcely evening,” protested Lim. “The horses yet have plenty of energy, and it is only a few hours’ ride further to Ithilien.”

“It is true, but if we camp soon, we will be able to make an early start. And I think we might make a better start on our work in the morning if we arrive already rested and ready to begin.” Legolas wondered if they could all hear the evasion in his voice.

“You think so, do you?” The knowing note in Hadril’s voice brought a flush of heat to his cheeks; he cast his eyes just to the side of her face to avoid being pinned by her gaze. “Very well, I am not opposed.”

Lim appeared ready to protest further, but fell silent at a glance from Faimes. She of all people seemed most inclined to sympathy rather than mockery, and he recalled again her words from the morning. “I too have no opposition,” she said. “It will be pleasant to sleep out beneath the stars again, and perhaps our work will be better for a rest tonight. Let us make camp.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this last chapter, but this time I mean it: keep your eye out for a Certain Line left in by popular demand. ;)

As always, when Ithilien came into view in the distance, all the elves sucked in a breath.

There was a wonder to this land that would never leave Legolas, he thought, no matter how often he had visited or how long he would live here. He would dare any wood-elf to come here and not be captivated by it: the sweet smell of herbs and good soil and fresh running water; the vast swaths of forest that promised home even to those come from Eryn Lasgalen; the wildflowers that bloomed in riots on the scrubby hills and peeked out from patches of undergrowth in the forest. And of course, below it all, the taint of nearby Mordor, not wholly banished with Sauron: a taste like burnt metal in the back of the throat – giving proof to the strength of this land, which had retained its beauty even after so many years of sustained proximity to evil.

Legolas had felt a kinship with the land immediately, as had the other elves from his home: all those who had lived for near two thousand years in Mirkwood, a land beclouded and tainted through no fault of its own. All his companions had followed him here, trusting his description – and the first time they had visited, near the beginning of their sojourn in Minas Tirith, every single one of them had pledged to return with him and help him heal the sickness of the land, restore it to beauty and wholeness once more.

As they approached, Legolas tried desperately to fix his mind once more on all these ideals – on all these promises he had made to his companions, to the wood, to himself. And, like every time he had tried to remind himself this morning, he failed.

They drew nearer and nearer to this land of beauty, and Legolas urged Arod to greater speed – not out of his eagerness to finally begin work, but out of the burning, desperate need to find – at long last – a place of privacy.

Burning, yes – _burning_ was right. He had found no time to tend to himself last night, not in a camp surrounded by his fellows and their horses, and he could hardly call a halt on the road. Everyone would have heard; everyone would know – and he knew they noticed his odd behavior already, but he could not bear to confirm any suspicions.

But here – here, at last, they would find a place to make their permanent camp; they would settle in to unpack their tools, and Legolas might slip away to go – er – unpack his tool. 

They could not arrive soon enough; Arod willingly increased his pace to a canter when Legolas urged him, and the others followed him, and still they could not move fast enough to snuff the fire burning in Legolas’s blood. They called their horses to a halt just at the edge of the woods, there to make camp, so that the horses – meant for the open air – would not be too distressed by living among close-growing trees.

Like the night before, when he finally tumbled from Arod’s back, his legs would hardly bear his weight. He braced himself against Arod’s side for a moment while the others slid to the ground, but he could not help shifting his posture, hoping his state of arousal was not too distressingly obvious.

“I will” – His voice cracked when he spoke; he would have flushed were his face not already surely burning scarlet. He gestured uselessly into the woods, unable to even conjure an excuse for what he needed. “I need to” –

“Do what you must,” said Hadril, and he thought he could see through the haze in his mind that she was struggling not to smile. “We will care for Arod for you.”

“Thank you.” His thighs clenched; he pressed his legs tighter together, biting off the groan that fought to escape. “I will return shortly; I must” –

“Legolas.” Damion did not even attempt to conceal it; he was grinning openly. “ _Go._ ”

“As far as you can,” added Eithon.

Legolas could not even attempt to defend himself. He turned and streaked into the trees, his own restless energy propelling him along like a loosed arrow. He wondered if he would leave a trail of flame in his path.

Behind him, he could hear his companions laughing.

* * *

* * *

Legolas made his way back to where they had arrived on unsteady legs, bracing himself on trees as he recovered his equilibrium, his cheeks already burning in anticipation of his shameful return. His jerkin felt uncomfortably taut where he had tucked it into his breeches, hiding the evidence of his indiscretions – as though the way it had been folded and drawn low over his shoulders were not evidence enough! As though his hasty departure itself were not evidence enough. They all knew why he had gone, after all. How could their teasing possibly lessen after this?

Likely he even deserved it.

But to his surprise, when he stumbled back to the edge of the woods where they had stopped, he found nothing but a few grazing horses and a pile of abandoned bags. And Faimes, sitting among them, her posture taut as though braced for a blow.

For a bare moment, he considered not announcing his presence – but already she had turned to face him, trapping him in the force of her scrutiny. “Legolas,” she said.

“Faimes.” He twisted his hair off his neck, fingering the marriage braid in the hopes of calming himself down – though the sensations that motion roused in him were anything but _calm_. “Where are the others?”

“They are off seeking a more permanent campsite,” said Faimes. “I remained here to wait for you.”

“I can see that.” Legolas fought the urge to hide his face in his hands. “Merely to wait, or do you have a further purpose?” She would not look so tense otherwise, so reluctant – and he remembered her sympathy earlier. She was one of the few wed members of his company, though her spouse had remained behind in Eryn Lasgalen when they journeyed to Gondor. She expected hir arrival in Ithilien soon, though, and it struck Legolas now to wonder how she could have borne the separation. Humiliating as the thought was, perhaps she had some understanding of his plight – some explanation.

“Of course,” she said, “as I think you know.” She heaved a deep sigh and patted the earth beside her. “Come sit.”

Legolas glanced off into the forest. For all that he was the youngest of the company, he was also the leader, and he would not forsake his duties any longer than he already had.

“Legolas, every one of us has known how to make a camp since before you were born,” she said impatiently. “Sit with me.”

Flushing again, he dropped to the ground beside her – not as gracefully as he could have hoped on still-shaky legs. Sitting, at least, had the added benefit of relieving the pressure of his tucked shirt against his shoulders. “Very well; say what you will.”

She took a deep breath. “Legolas . . . how much do you know about marriage?”

“Not enough, it seems,” he said grimly. He stared at his knees, but - what was the use in reticence? She knew – they all knew – why he had gone off so suddenly; asking her now could not possibly humiliate him further. “Faimes, what is happening to me?” he burst out. “Is this what you have to tell me?” Still he could feel the tug and weight of the braid against his neck, sending tingles of sensation all over his scalp. “This is – I cannot” –

“Someone ought to have told you before, I suppose,” she said, “but we did not think you would not know. I suppose it only stands to reason – by your age, most have either wed already or will not, and most of your peers had already made that decision by the time you reached your majority. Well. You knew, I suppose, when you had fallen in love?”

“Yes.” That, at least, he had been prepared for. Unlike dwarves, as Gimli had explained to him, elves did not experience bodily desire until their spirits had already found their match. Legolas had known as soon as Gimli’s touch quickened his heart and made him tremble with longing that what he felt was irrevocable, final. “But I knew to expect that.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Well, do you remember how overwhelming it was to suddenly know desire, where you had never felt it before?”

He remembered. Early into their courtship, Gimli had asked that they wait to hold their dwarven wedding until Aglarond was built, so that he might marry in his own land. Legolas had tried to wait on their elven wedding as well, not wanting their relationship to be unequal – and at first it had been delicious, a torment made sweeter by the tantalizing promise of the future they imagined. But at the prospect of their parting . . .

“I do,” was all he said. For all she had wed so long ago, it was no surprise that Faimes remembered it as well: it was . . . overpowering.

“You know, of course, how sudden and surprising the feeling is, how powerful. To go from so little sensation to so much in such a short period of time . . . the desire alone is much to accustom oneself to, but then upon its consummation . . . well. Your body, now awakened to the sensation, realizes how long it has been denied. You begin to . . . crave.” To her credit, she looked far less uncomfortable than he felt, her pauses more the desire to pick the right words than the embarrassment that made Legolas want to sink beneath the earth. Perhaps that was part of the adjustment process, as well; that matter-of-factness – or perhaps Legolas would have been able to share it, were it not that he could still feel the new weight of his marriage braid, the memories of his early and recent sensations traveling from his thoughts into his blood, heat building in his belly, between his thighs –

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I have been made aware of that fact.”

She laughed, not without sympathy. “As we can all see.”

He gave in at last and hid his face. “And the craving?” he said into his hands. “How long does that last?”

She shrugged. “A month? Two, perhaps? I believe it varies, but Iallath and I found it was some few weeks before we could bear to part company for long.”

_To part company._ Legolas squirmed – partly at the thought, partly at the now undeniable hardening between his legs. He drew his knees up, trying to conceal it, but he knew she was not fooled. “And . . .” He licked his lips. “And if you had been forced to part company before the . . . craving had been satisfied?”

Faimes pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. “That I cannot answer.” She gave another slightly pitying laugh. “I am sorry, Legolas.”

“I see.” He drew his legs tighter together. “Well. I thank you for your explanations.” Oh, there was nothing for it; he had to leave _again_ , _already_. What misery was in store for him? “I am sorry, if you will excuse me, I must” –

“I understand.” She put a hand over her mouth, and he could not decide whether to be grateful for her attempts at discretion or indignant at her amusement. With her other hand she pointed. “The others went that way, if you” –

“Thank you,” he said, grateful at least for that small courtesy. He turned in the opposite direction from her pointing finger and fled.

* * *

When Legolas returned, his companions had gathered once again at their makeshift campsite and were speaking quietly.

In the smallest of small mercies, they had gathered with their tools some distance away from the bags containing clothing and food. He stripped off his stained jerkin before approaching them and stuffed it in a wad into the outer pocket of his own pack – he would wash it later, when he had another chance to slip away.

He tried to slip into their huddle without being noticed, but of course they looked up when he arrived. “Welcome back,” Damion said, his eyes gleaming with just a hint of mischief. “We were just beginning to make plans.”

“Of course,” Legolas managed, twisting his hands together. “What have you discussed so far?”

“We think our first priority ought to be seeking out any dead or poisoned things that need to be burned,” said Hadril. “That was something you spoke of on our last visit, yes?”

Legolas nodded. It had stood out to him instantly: Ithilien had held stubbornly onto beauty and life, but it had lain beneath the taint of Mordor for too long to be wholly unaffected. Patches of woodland and certain springs and streams had fallen to Sauron’s corruption, and he had identified their first task as clearing those areas and setting controlled blazes to reduce them to ash. The streams they would merely let run until they were cleansed, but for the springs they had also brought along some of their best woodland healers, who could work purifying enchantments.

“That is well,” he said. “We will have to be vigilant with the fires, of course, but our first task will be identifying the corrupted areas and clearing them for better burning.”

“Precisely.” Hadril glanced around. “Lim was unpacking the a – ah, the hatchets, and Eithon has already found a spot to begin.”

“Wonderful.” Legolas squared his shoulders. He considered glaring her down for the slip – did his companions really think him so overcome with lust that the word _axe_ alone would undo him? – but perhaps it would be best not to call attention to it. Indeed, it would be best not to think about it at all. He would _not_ prove a weak link to this company, not to this mission he had planned. “I will join you.”

But even as he followed the rest of his companions through the woods, pushing aside branches, winding their way through undergrowth, the brief moment of clarity was already fading. No, the word would not have affected him on its own – he was almost sure – but the way she had avoided it had only drawn attention to its absence. Had only drawn his own attention to its absence.

When they arrived at the spot Eithon had identified, he was almost able to forget his own troubles. The essence of nearby Mordor had sunk deeply into the trees and the soil here, and the feel of it was so powerful that it nearly knocked them all back a step. But Legolas’s tolerance for it was greater than his companions’; he had, after all, already spent weeks here, had already marched into the foul air of Mordor itself – and the memories of that only reminded him of his time here a year before, with Gimli at his side, Gimli’s weight against his back, rocking with the motion of the horse beneath them –

He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms. “This seems a good place to begin,” he said.

“Yes.” Hadril surveyed the area. “Shall we fell all the trees in this patch of forest?”

And then they were all in motion: Lim delving into the thick of the trees to identify and mark the perimeter of the corruption; Damion unpacking the hatchets; Faimes already tugging dead shrubs and brush out of the ground so they would not spread a blaze beyond what they could contain.

Legolas went to assist her, relieved in part at the simplicity of this work: pull and release, the satisfaction as each dead root system came free of the ground, piling the wood and scrub up in heaps for burning. After a few moments, Damion came to him with an axe and he took it readily, reveling in the flex of his shoulders and the satisfying bite of the blade into wood. Some of these trees were not yet dead, but they were past the point of saving, and there was a satisfaction to this culling – cutting out the harmful growth, that the forest might breathe the better.

It struck him that Gimli would find it strange, the sight of elves hewing at trees with axes, cutting live wood only to burn it. Legolas had always found it difficult to explain to non-wood-elves that sometimes the health of the forest depended on the removal of what no longer served it. He could only imagine Gimli’s words – “After making so much of the dangers of my axe, now you wield one yourself!”

But then, perhaps Gimli would not find the sight so objectionable. Legolas could practically see him now, the teasing gone from his face, his eyes dark with desire – could hear the mock indignation deepened into something much more suggestive. Could practically feel Gimli coming up beside him, running an appreciative hand down Legolas’s bicep and forearm before finally taking the axe from his hand, his smile full of promise –

Something flickered through Legolas’s belly: a white-hot jolt of desire, sudden as a lightning strike. He gasped aloud and his next stroke went wide, biting into the bark above the notch he had already created and shivering the tree so hard that needles showered into his hair.

Legolas blinked back into full, horrified consciousness, breathing hard, still clutching the handle of the axe. It had wedged itself deeply into the wood, and he could only be thankful for that: one awful possibility after the other marched through his mind – supposing it had bounced off and been torn free of his hand? Had hit someone else? Supposing he had missed his stroke in a much more disastrous way and wounded himself or one of his companions?

Around him, everyone else had gone dead silent.

But even this – the shock of the moment, the horror of what could have happened, the stares of his companions – had not dampened the flame of desire. It had caught in his belly instead, and even now he could feel the fire racing all through his blood, his cheeks burning hotter than ever at the thoughts and the humiliation.

Legolas braced a foot against the base of the tree and wrenched at the axe – once, twice, and it came free with a shuddering ripping sound. Letting out a long, shaky breath, he lowered it very slowly and placed it on the ground beside the roots.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice trembling, and trusting himself to speak no more, he turned and fled.

After that, it was decided that Legolas would do better to work alone.

* * *

* * *

_My dear Legolas,_

_I am sure you did not hope to receive a letter from me so soon, but I flatter myself that you will be pleased! Knowing the date of our planned arrival in Aglarond, our folk from Erebor arranged to have some of our letter-carrying ravens sent to us, for use in our new settlement. They are wonderfully clever and useful, and though they need some time to warm to new companions, I am sure that this one has already shared his true name with you and declared himself your boon companion. Such is your nature. I only hope he will deign to part from you for long enough to carry your swift response back to me!_

_From this, you will surely have gathered that we have arrived safely in Aglarond. We were met with an enthusiastic greeting from Éomer, who I think is very pleased to have a settlement of dwarves within his kingdom. Of course, he is here only infrequently, but it delights me to have such an eager champion of our work._

_Already we are all hard at work on building plans, and my people are just as overwhelmed by the beauty of the Glittering Caves as I was – and as I remember you were when we came here together. I have already settled on the hall that we will use for grand feasts and celebrations, and I cannot help picturing you there on the long-awaited day of our wedding, dressed in the finest garments dwarven hands can make (and they are fine indeed!), with gems braided into your hair by my hands, marking you mine at last in the eyes of all our people._

_But just as clear in my mind is the image of retiring with you to our chambers afterwards, unbraiding your hair and stripping you of all your finery until I see you in nothing but the splendor of your own skin. For while I may yet imagine the joy of our dwarven wedding, the memory of our elven wedding night still lingers in my mind, and I confess it often keeps me company in my otherwise-lonely nights! I miss you most sorely, but until I may see you again, I must be content with the memory of the scent of your skin, the silk of your hair between my fingers, the warmth of your mouth around me . . ._

_I hope this letter does not overstep the demands of propriety! I know all this is yet new to you, and I assure you that I have given equal thought to all that I might show you, when at last we are reunited._

_Anyway, I have spoken enough of myself! How do you fare? Is Ithilien as fine as you remembered, and are you now hard at work bringing it to fuller bloom? I hope you will find time between your forest healing and befriending my bird to pen a response!_

_Until that time (and after!), I remain,_

_Your loving husband (and betrothed),_

_Gimli_

* * *

There was a raven circling over the elves’ makeshift camp.

Hadril paused before her bag and stared at it. It was certainly not a species native to these woods; she had not seen its like anytime in the last week, and its behavior was anything but natural. It looked . . . impatient. As though it were waiting for something.

“What brings you here, friend?” she asked. “And why do you wait, when you so clearly wish to depart again?”

The bird alit on a branch before her and fixed her with a beady stare. Its song was different from what she knew, as though in an unfamiliar language, but she could read in its eyes and its demeanor a strange combination of amusement, disdain, and reluctant fondness – something she had often encountered from animals who had no patience for the foolishness of elves and mortals. And then the bird turned and looked very deliberately into the distance.

Before Hadril could turn, her gaze fell onto the ground below the raven’s branch. Discarded near Legolas’s bags she could see a scroll bearing a seal she recognized from communications with Erebor.

“ _Ah_ ,” she said. She looked up, noted the raven’s gaze, and then turned to make her way in the opposite direction.

* * *

* * *

_Dear Gimli,_

_~~What would you show me?~~ _ ~~~~

_You are right that I had not hoped for so early a letter, but indeed it gladdens my heart to hear that you are faring so well and making such progress on your plans! Your bird is clever indeed, and – like any dwarf – not shy of telling me in no uncertain terms when my delays have grown too lengthy. Have no fear; he was eager enough to return to you, though I flatter myself he has grown reluctantly fond of me. Eventually I will wear him down just as I did you, and he will have no choice but to accept my friendship._

_~~I miss you so much it aches~~ _ _It is wonderful to hear that Éomer has welcomed you so warmly! But then, any king would be glad to have the skilled ~~fingers~~ ~~hands~~ work of dwarves so readily at his disposal. You enrich every land you visit with your presence, but surely he is grateful for the material advantages as well._

_~~I would beg you not to torment me with your~~ _ _~~Please tell me more of your fantasies~~ The work in Ithilien goes well, and my companions have been wonderfully helpful – and more patient than I deserve with my occasional lapses of attention. For I confess that I too miss you sorely, and cannot always keep my mind on my work! What have you done to me, my love? Already you have ensnared me with your dwarvish wiles, and I find it impossible to think of aught but you, all the day and night long when I should be working or resting! I shall have to content myself with memories and your beautiful fantasies of when we may be wed in Aglarond at last. Your tongue is ~~clever~~ silver even in writing, and I cannot but be moved._

_The raven is laughing at me now, or would laugh if he could form the sounds to do so, so I will at last end this letter by repeating that I miss you and love you most ardently, and that I can scarcely wait until we are together again._

_Your_

_Legolas_

* * *

“Legolas.”

Legolas flinched wildly, and Faimes stepped back and took her hand from his shoulder, raising it in a gesture of peace. “I am sorry to startle you.”

Legolas scrubbed a hand wearily across his face. “I am sorry to be startled.” It was inexcusable for an elf from Mirkwood, but there it was: his faculties were deserting him entirely, it seemed. It was well for him that Faramir’s company of men had been here for so long before their arrival clearing the land of wandering parties of orcs and brigands – had he been this distracted during the quest a year before, he would have fallen before even reaching Caradhras.

She gave a soft, sympathetic laugh. “Did I interrupt any especially pleasant thoughts?”

He was past defending himself; there was nothing for it but to join her in poking fun. “Do you think if you had, I would have been here for you to interrupt?”

She gave him a nod in concession of the point, then settled down across from him. “I suppose I had best take advantage of the opportunity, then. I feel I have not seen you in days.”

“Has it been so long?” In truth, he had lost track. The motion of the sun had blurred, the only markers of time the rise and fall of his own thoughts, and some part of him felt that it was still the same day he had said farewell to Gimli, that the day had stretched on and on despite the many journeys of the sun across the sky.

“Damion claims he has forgotten what your face looks like,” she teased. “And yet when he is challenged to go find you and remind himself, he abruptly remembers an urgent errand that takes him in the opposite direction.”

“We see where the family’s allotment of courage went, then,” Legolas said, gesturing at her. Her presence – even her gentle teasing – helped him feel slightly more awake and alive, present in this moment for once rather than in some other too-real dream world that threatened to consume his reality. For the first time in days, he felt the heaviness in his limbs and his eyes. He yawned.

“How long has it been since you rested?” she asked.

He shrugged. The true answer to that question was over a year; the gulls had long since stolen any peace that reverie might have lent him. Elves’ dreams were meant to be an easing of the mind and body into stillness or repetitive motion, when they could draw strength from the world around them and relax in thoughts of their own choosing. But since he had heard the cry of the gulls, Legolas’s control over his dreams had weakened, and Middle-earth no longer gave him the peace he craved. He might find a measure of restoration in stillness, but his mind could never rest with his body, ever tossed back and forth in the waves.

But he knew what she asked, and she waited in silence that told him she expected a true answer, so he tried to think back. “Before . . . before the wedding, I think?” he offered weakly. He had drifted into dreams a time or two since, but those had been nowhere near restorative – he had found something at last to distract him from the cry of the gulls, but it allowed him no more rest than before, not when they so often found him glancing around to ensure his privacy before consoling his raging need with the poor comfort of his own hand.

She frowned. “It should not be having this effect on you,” she said unnecessarily. “Even Iallath and I were able to rest regularly after our wedding, reverie and true-sleep both.”

“Well,” Legolas said, “perhaps that is because you and Iallath were not denied one another’s company all your waking hours.” He was grateful for her kindness, but it was doing no more good in the search for distraction, if all she would do was dwell upon his problems. He could do that well enough on his own.

Too well.

The evening breeze brushed his overheated skin and rustled through his hair. Any sensation there drew his attention to the tug and weight of the new braid at the nape of his neck, a feeling so distracting he had even thought fleetingly about undoing it - but that thought was even worse than enduring. He drew his knees up instead, swallowing hard to keep from making any sound.

She gazed off into the distance, appearing suddenly interested in the rustlings of a den of young rabbits behind a nearby cluster of shrubs. “Well,” she said lightly, “know that if you wish to seek true-sleep, any of us will gladly watch over your rest.”

Legolas’s hand twitched towards his thigh; he clenched it in his tunic to keep it still. “Even Damion?” He forced his tone to match hers for lightness, though the humor in his voice came nowhere near his soul.

“I will make no promises for him.” She laughed at last and stood. “Well. I will leave you in peace for now. Let us know if you need anything. Perhaps some cold water?”

“ _Faimes_.” He swatted at her with his free hand, but did not dare lower his knees. “Please.”

“I go, I go!” She darted backwards and vanished back in the direction of the main camp.

She laughed at him as she went, but he knew at least that her sympathy was real.

* * *

_Dear Legolas,_

_It is wonderful to hear back from you so swiftly, and to know that your work has begun so well. I am glad that your fellows share your passion and eagerness for the project, for you deserve nothing less than the most enthusiastic companions. I recall with great fondness the shine in your eyes when you spoke to me about the promise you saw in the land; the beauty of your smile as you coaxed life into struggling seedlings. I have never known how to see beauty in forests, but I saw it in your love for Ithilien, and now whenever I think of the land I will remember how you love it._

_And see, now I am growing sentimental yet again! My folk tease me most mercilessly for it – for what dwarf ever finds it difficult to concentrate on his craft, even for thoughts of his beloved? But I am reassured that even you find your thoughts occasionally turned away from your woodland gardens to think on me._

_No thanks to me (so my companions say), our work in Aglarond goes well. It has been a challenge to integrate the sensibilities of dwarves with those of men, but the challenge is what makes the work so rewarding. Men typically keep even their underground havens close to the surface, but you know that dwarves prefer to delve much deeper. Éomer has graciously allowed us to drill further into the stone to expand the caves, but we may not go too deep! We will wake no ancient evils here, I assure you. Anyway, as I said to you long ago, these caverns are too fine for uncautious mining; we will do our work one careful hammer-stroke at a time, ensuring that our loving care will only bring forth greater wonders than before._

_Of course, all this is only in the planning stages; not a single hammer-stroke will fall until we have ensured that all our designs look just as we wish them to! You have chided me for my perfectionism, my love, but I wish you could see a whole company of dwarves at work on such an endeavor. The arguments, sometimes, are beyond what even you would believe without hearing them with your own ears. For all our self-professed discipline, we dwarves can be quite a noisy people, when we are especially inspired and driven to such passion._

_Anyway, I have spoken enough of myself. I would love to hear more of your work! I cannot claim to understand the enchantments that you weave – I confess I understood little when you tried to explain, which I will take as my just revenge for the way your eyes glazed over when I attempted to explain the structure of Aragorn's walls – but I miss the way your eyes gleam when you talk about what you love. Writing is a poor substitute, but it will have to do._

_I eagerly await your response, and remain_

_Your_

_Gimli_

* * *

* * *

_Dear Gimli,_

_It is wonderful to hear back from you about your mining; I am sure it goes very well. Dwarves are excellent miners, yes. I remember the caves were very beautiful, and surely you are making them more beautiful, you and your company of dwarves. Thank you for telling me about your progress, though I worry that I have no similar tales of progress to share with you, for our work does not involve mining. But we also use tools. Axes, even! Elves with axes. Perhaps your company will think it a strange thought, elves cutting wood and pulling weeds and brush and setting forest fires. But they are controlled, do not worry! We know how to control ourselves. I am controlling myself very well._

_As always, I miss you and think about you very often, perhaps too often. Perhaps your raven has tales to tell of my eagerness to hear from you. Has he told you aught? Surely you would laugh if you knew the extent of it, how I fare with only my own ~~hand~~ company. I would surely be gladder of yours. But in the meantime I content myself with my work. I have told you of our work already, have I not? We are clearing areas of the forest for paths and ridding it of the taint of Sauron. I miss you. Have I said that already? Please forgive me my errant thoughts; I have had little rest. Surely I would sleep better with you beside me._

_I miss you,_

_Legolas_

* * *

Gimli looked up from his latest letter and frowned, absentmindedly rolling and unrolling it between his hands.

“Is something the matter?” asked Horvari.

“The same thing as always,” chuckled Ganar, jerking his head towards the letter Gimli held. “Why you even bother asking, Horvari, I cannot fathom.”

Gimli flashed him an obscene gesture - if he were soon to take up the title of _lord_ he had best enjoy these indulgences while he still had the chance - but absently, his heart not in it. He had begun the letter smiling at Legolas’s eagerness, but something about it had felt . . . _off_ , in a way he could not quite explain.

Perhaps it was those last lines: _I have had little rest. Surely I would sleep better with you beside me._ For all the insults traded between their peoples, Gimli knew elves were hard workers - even had he not known it already, their year working together in Minas Tirith would have convinced him. Was Legolas working too hard and not taking enough time to sleep? Or was it something else - those last lines had sounded plaintive. Had the sea-longing grown worse?

“Bera,” he said.

His newly-appointed second looked up from her work. “Yes?”

“In your professional opinion,” he said slowly, “would the planning suffer too terribly for the loss of a leader for a fortnight?”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You would leave already?”

“Of course he would!” Horvari teased. “Look at him; already he is miles away. Why not let his body follow his thoughts?”

Ganar burst out laughing at the double entendre, and even Gimli felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips, but he kept his eyes on Bera. She was less boisterous than the rest, and a newer friend than the other two, but sharp-minded and creative, and he trusted her judgment on the matter. “Not if I did not think it necessary,” he said.

Her lips pursed, but at last she nodded slowly. “I think it would not do too much harm,” she said. “Narin and Bjolla had planned to do stone testing in the caverns where we would begin the mining, and then there are the plans to be drawn up; we certainly will not be ready to make decisions before your return, so long as you are only gone a few weeks. I will oversee matters, if you wish it.”

Gimli nodded firmly, pressing the scroll of the letter flat into folds. “I will go, then. I will begin preparations for my departure immediately.”

He wondered for a moment if he should send word ahead of him, to Ithilien – but something held him back. Warning would not arrive soon enough for them to prepare, anyway, and perhaps a surprise would be just what Legolas needed.

* * *

Had an elf ever been known to die of this? 

Legolas’s rational mind told him that thought was absurd, but moments of rational thought seemed to grow scarcer and scarcer by the hour. His skin felt hot and tight all over, his nerves constantly humming; the slightest brush of unexpected sensation threatened to send him over the edge at any moment. He had given up all hope of taking charge of the restoration work; the best he could do was stumble in the direction he was bidden, his body buzzing, and try his best to work.

(And ah, the guilt of it! He had called them all out here to heal a land and build a home for elves; they had come in his name, and now he was their weakest link.)

Some days, though, the work came more easily. Some rare, shining hours he was able to take all the fire that raged in his body and channel it into strength, into the passion for his work that Gimli praised, that he could not bring himself to confess was so rarely present anymore.

They were building a trail to wind through the forest; eventually it would connect the entrance to their domain with the mannish settlement to the east, and would lead anywhere else their mortal visitors might need to go. Legolas volunteered to clear the path north, and the others let him begin alone, in a mercy he did not deserve.

The ground was overgrown after a thousand years of neglect, littered with dead sticks and branches and shrubs that had long since withered to nothing. This trail might be the wood-elves’ concession to visitors, but they would not clear the path as other peoples did, hacking indiscriminately at trees and brush that still served a purpose. They would clear away only those things already dead, or those things whose life stood in the way of the well-being of others, and the path would wind according to the whim of the woods.

This was the sort of work Legolas could do best in his current state: repetitive enough that he hardly had to think about it, yet requiring just enough thought and sense to distract him from his own mind; physical enough to be a channel for all his restless energy. It was nearly soothing: the tug of stubborn weeds and the sudden satisfaction as they came loose; the faint but steady burn in his shoulders and biceps as he pulled free heaps of dry brush and chopped dead branches into small pieces. The satisfying feeling of rooting out not only dying plants, but also threads of Sauron’s poison, leaving them in useless heaps to be burned later into harmless ash.

He moved along steadily, slowly at first and then quicker as the rhythm grew more natural – but that was the benefit of working on his own. Every time he grew too settled in the rhythm, and the thoughts began to creep into his mind again, he would merely increase his pace, moving faster, covering more ground, as though fleeing from the pursuit of his own fantasies.

Before long – or had it been long? he could not say – his arms and shoulders were burning; he could feel the rough scrape of his breath against his throat. He paused to dash sweat from his eyes in a brief, impatient movement, and started at the realization that dusk was falling. The sun had set while he was lost in his work, and he could no longer hear his companions in the distance.

He paused for a moment and glanced back. As far as his sight reached, he could see nothing but his own work: the tight, winding trail he had cleared, marked by piles of brush for later burning. How far had he come already?

But there was no time for that; he had broken his rhythm, and he feared that if he allowed himself to be distracted much longer, he would lose the momentum he had already built. Best to get as much work done as he could in this brief period free of distraction, so he wiped his forehead again with his shirtsleeve, drew in another quick, jagged breath, and bent down to the earth once more.


	4. Chapter 4

Prior to falling in love with an elf, Gimli would never have noticed the charms of Ithilien. Trees were trees, after all, and flowers flowers – the one useful for wood to burn, if you could not find coal; the other suitable perhaps for reference in the creation of some beautiful piece of jewelry; but of little worth on their own.

Now, though, he thought differently. During the few weeks they had spent in Ithilien after the march on the Black Gate, Legolas had taught him the names of the different trees, had taught him to appreciate the scent of the fresh air – and while he did not feel invigorated by it the way Legolas did, he could understand the pleasure of it nonetheless. As he drew nearer to the land now, he tipped back his head as Legolas had taught him and inhaled deeply.

As the sweet scent of flowers, herbs, and moss rushed into his lungs, so did the full force of the excitement he had been containing flood through his body. He was here! Finally, after weeks of working and days on the road, he was in Legolas's land, only moments away from seeing his betrothed – his husband – again –

He dismounted his borrowed pony at the edge of the woods and stood for a moment uncertainly. He had given no warning that he was coming, and now he was not quite sure where to go or what to do. For all Legolas's assurances, he was not sure he trusted the forest as would a wood-elf, and he did not know where to begin in his search.

But there was no need. A whistle rang out from the trees above his head, and two of Legolas's companions dropped from the eaves of the forest. For all that he had spent a year with them, it still took Gimli a moment to tell one elf from another – but these two were more recognizable than some of the others: clearly siblings, with the same dark skin and black hair. One he had only spoken with a few times, for she tended to watch with a quiet smile as the other elves grew louder and more boisterous – but the other he knew well; indeed, had frequently sparred with in sporting games of wit.

“Damion!” he said in greeting. “And Faimes” –

He had no time to say anything more – no chance even to collect himself before they were upon him, clapping his shoulders and grinning broadly at him. "Master Gimli!" said Damion. "We did not expect to see you here so soon!"

"It is a most welcome surprise." Faimes – in the past always so reticent – now looked inches from embracing Gimli, and he could only blink. Did marrying one elf mean you had somehow entered an arrangement with all his companions? "I will lead you to Legolas, if you wish. He will be . . . very glad to see you."

"I will care for your mount," said Damion, still beaming almost unnervingly, before Gimli could even determine what he wanted to ask. He took the reins from Gimli, and Gimli thought to protest for a moment – he had been warned most sternly not to let the pony out of his sight – but then, who safer to leave him with than a wood-elf? "Go with Faimes. The sooner you and your husband are reunited, the better it will be for all of us."

Gimli could not help but laugh, following Faimes beneath the boughs and into the forest. "Has he missed me, then?" No doubt his own companions would have teased similarly, had Legolas come to visit; Gimli would have to tell them smugly that he had not been the only one pining.

"You could say that," she said dryly, pausing at a tight corner to wait for him as a thick tangle of roots threatened to trip him up. He had not come so far into the forest when he had visited here with Legolas, and it took nearly all his concentration to hold the low-hanging branches out of his face, let alone navigate the uneven forest floor – but she moved through it with the same ease Legolas had shown skipping across the packed snow of Caradhras. He almost would have thought the forest itself moved out of the way for her. "I would explain, but I think it is better you see for yourself." 

Gimli opened his mouth to ask, but all questions were forgotten as a sudden jerk at his chest stopped him short. He wrenched his gaze from his feet to his torso and realized that while he had been occupied keeping twigs out of his face and hair, one of them had snagged neatly in the buckle across the breast of his quilted leather jerkin. Out of respect for his host, he suppressed a huff of frustration and turned to the task of untangling it, fighting the urge to snap off the branch.

Faimes watched him in silence for a moment with a tiny thoughtful frown, and just as he had freed himself from the grip of the branch, she ventured, “Perhaps it would be best if you left your armor with me as well.”

“My armor?” Gimli frowned at her. Surely no elf had made so brazen a suggestion to a dwarf before!

“I mean you no harm, but I think it will only hamper your progress,” she said. “Legolas is beginning the process of clearing a trail; the forest will only grow thicker from here. And,” her lips twisted in a small wry smile, “I think I can guarantee you will have no need of it henceforth.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You are confident in your defenses!”

“You may do as you please, of course,” she said, “but I urge you to take my suggestion. Legolas is a little ways ahead, through those trees.” She gestured ahead at what looked to be a nearly impenetrable thicket of trees and shrubs and undergrowth.

Gimli eyed the many buckles on his armor, then the trees, with disfavor. “He is near, then?”

She tilted her head to the side, then nodded. “Near enough.”

If no elf had ever asked such a thing of a dwarf before, surely a dwarf had never agreed to it! But Gimli let out a deep sigh and nodded. She had not asked him to remove his weapons, after all, and he knew the elves wore little armor beyond bracers for archery. “Very well,” he said, and instead of rebuckling the strap, he set himself to undoing the rest.

To his surprise, he did feel better when he had removed his armor – the season was warm, after all, and the air in the thick of the forest humid and close. Faimes took it from him with the solemn promise to guard it well and leave it with the horse until Gimli retrieved it once more.

“I will hold you to your word,” said Gimli, flexing his arms and reveling in the lightness. “Now. You said he is through there?”

Faimes peered through the trees and nodded again. “Not far ahead at all,” she said. “So I think I will leave you now, so you might have your reunion . . . privately."

Yet again, Gimli opened his mouth to ask a question – but again, he did not have the chance to speak. Before he could as much as blink she was gone, vanished into the trees like a wraith.

Gimli thought about calling after her and asking for an explanation, but he knew already that she would not answer – so he could only shake his head. Elves.

Left alone, he craned his neck through the trees in the direction she had indicated. The forest was even thicker here, but he did notice a small cleared space in the undergrowth, a rough approximation of a trail. _Legolas is beginning the process,_ she had said – and at that reminder, the excitement flooded up within him once more. Legolas was here, so close up ahead that surely if Gimli called out, he would hear him.

But – he had come this far without warning. Why spoil the surprise so soon and miss the opportunity to see Legolas’s reaction up close?

A smile started on Gimli’s lips at the thought. His eyes on the ground, one hand up to shield his face from branches, Gimli stepped onto the trail.

* * *

“And this is something all elves experience?”

Legolas nodded against Gimli’s shoulder, the motion sending his hair in a tickling cascade across Gimli’s bare chest. “All wed elves, anyway - at least that is what my companions tell me. Though” – he gave a self-conscious little laugh – “I am inclined to think it is less severe for those who are not separated from their spouses the day after the wedding.”

Gimli shifted to ease the pressure of the ground against his hip, adjusting the hand cradling Legolas’s head and marveling at the silky hair slipping through his fingers. “I am sorry,” he said. “I suppose it explains their reaction to my arrival.” That was the only reason he felt comfortable lying thus, bare to the sky with Legolas curled against him – if Legolas had been like this since their parting, it was not a wonder his companions had surmised the cause. He understood Legolas’s certainty of earlier that they would not be disturbed.

“Yes,” Legolas said. “They have been remarkably patient with me, and I have repaid them poorly for their kindness. I hope to make it up to them someday, but I . . . cannot hope to do it now.”

He squirmed slightly where he lay across Gimli’s body, and Gimli shifted to accommodate his motion – and then chuckled at the unexpected nudge against his hip. “Again?” he said. “Already?”

“I am sorry.” The words came out half as a murmur, half as a moan. Legolas’s hips hitched against Gimli’s, and he hid his face in Gimli’s beard. “I – if I could control it” –

“No need for apology,” said Gimli soothingly. “I only fear I will not be able to match you this time.” He was spent already, naked and warm beneath the sun and sliding into languid drowsiness. He would have happily dozed off with Legolas curled in his arms and woken refreshed in an hour or so, ready for more. As it was . . .

“I can turn away,” offered Legolas. His voice was strained, but he made no effort to extract himself from Gimli’s grip. “If it makes you uncomfortable.”

That was enough to shake Gimli free of his lassitude. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. He might not be ready for another _joining_ yet – and he might be bewildered by all the complications of elvish marriage – but he would hardly have his husband tending to himself in his very presence so soon after their wedding! “Anyway, if it has been this severe ever since we parted, I imagine you have grown weary of the company of your own hand by now.”

“It will suffice, in your absence, but . . . I have . . . _oh_.” Legolas’s words faded into a groan as Gimli took him in hand, and a shudder ran through his body. “Gimli, I . . . your hands . . .”

As before, it did not last long: it took no more than a few strokes, a few whispered words, to send Legolas over the edge. Afterwards he cleaned them off with his own discarded tunic and curled up against Gimli again, resting his head back on Gimli’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmured into Gimli’s beard.

“I am at your service anytime you need.” Gimli laughed. “Well. Perhaps not _anytime_.” His eyes were sinking closed despite himself; his arm snaked out to draw Legolas tighter against him. “You are sure none of your people will come by?”

Legolas sighed. “I would not be surprised if they had all excused themselves to the mannish settlement by now in an attempt to be certain they will come nowhere near us.” He stroked a hand gently through Gimli’s beard. “Go to sleep while you may, my love.” Gimli could hear the rueful smile in his voice. “I do not think this visit will be a restful one.”

* * *

It was a good thing, Gimli supposed, that he did not sleep well in the open woods anyway.

* * *

Legolas did not notice when Gimli stiffened against him – how could he? He was transported, uplifted – in ecstasy with Gimli inside him, every place their bare skin touched a soothing balm to the burn that had scorched him from inside for days, weeks, eternities. This – this was bliss, a dream that had tormented him for so long, one he could hardly believe had come true at last.

And so when they finished, collapsed against one another in a pile of bent limbs and heavy breaths and beating hearts, he did not know how to react when Gimli said, “Legolas, I can tolerate no more of this.”

The words jolted him like a hammer-blow or a fallen tree, a sickening _thud_ deep in his belly. A dream he could not believe had come true – he had been right to disbelieve it, then; it was too perfect to be real, and since it was real it must have a catch. He scrambled up off of Gimli’s thighs, scarlet shame flooding his face. “Of course,” he said hurriedly, “I should not have roused you, I” –

“What? – no, not _this,_ ” Gimli seized Legolas’s hand and tugged him back down, allowing him once more the merciful relief of skin on skin and soothing him with a stroke of his hand along his side. “ _This._ ” With his free hand he gestured around them, and Legolas followed his movement, seeing nothing amiss. “You may be part woodland creature yourself, but a dwarf is not meant to be bared for so long to the sky – or the curious stares of the passing wildlife.”

_Curious stares of -_ A giggle escaped Legolas before he could help himself, his momentary distress forgotten. “Is my courageous husband intimidated by the other inhabitants of Ithilien?” he teased.

“Intimidated – Legolas, I made direct eye contact with a passing deer,” Gimli said. Legolas covered his mouth to muffle his laughter, and Gimli gestured wildly again. “It _stared_ at me!”

“It was only curious,” Legolas said, forcing down another giggle and stroking Gimli’s arm, hoping that his husband might find the touch as soothing as he had. “It will not carry tales of you, if that is your concern.”

“I do not care what its intent was,” said Gimli. “I cannot be expected to do this before an audience, curious or not. If you would have me fit to satisfy you, I need walls and a roof over my head.” He gave Legolas’s rear a gentle swat, and Legolas yelped, arousal flooding him all over again. But he had no chance to satisfy it, for Gimli nudged him gently off his lap. “Up with you, husband, and let us seek out some wood. No more pleasure until we have done some work.”

* * *

* * *

“Your back.”

“Hmm?” It took Legolas a moment to register that Gimli had spoken, so occupied was he in the blissful feeling of Gimli pressing into him from behind, his own hand wrapped around himself in front, rapid strokes that would soon have him finished. How Gimli could speak at all in this moment, Legolas could not understand.

“You’re hurt.” Gimli stilled inside him, ignoring Legolas’s whimper of protest, and ran a hand down his back. Legolas hissed, less from the pain and more from the fire that followed the light touch, but he knew what Gimli meant: the rough abrasions along the length of his back – surely an exact match to the tree he had been pressed against shortly before, as they paused in building their current shelter.

“It is nothing,” he insisted. Squirmed, hoping the motion would be enough to get Gimli to resume. “Gimli, _meleth_ , please . . .”

Gimli sighed, but complied with a swift jerk of his hips that made Legolas gasp and push back against him. Gimli moved with a purpose now, and it was not long before they both finished, groaning one after the other. But when Legolas would have collapsed into Gimli, Gimli nudged him gently to the side. “Wait,” he said. “Let me put salve on it.”

“You do not need . . .” Legolas began to protest. And there was the guilt again – that he had already demanded so much of Gimli; to have Gimli concerned for him, caring for him –

“Nonsense,” said Gimli firmly. He had piled his bags beside one wall of their makeshift shelter – though not leaned them against it, for fear they would prove too much strain on the stick-lattice – and he went to them now, rummaging in the pockets until he withdrew a small tin. “It will only take a moment.” He settled behind Legolas once more and opened the tin. The scent of calendula rose into the air, musky and heavy in their small den – but not out of place against the scent of the forest.

The salve was cold on Legolas’s back, and he yelped at the touch. Gimli chuckled. “The mighty warrior, undone by healing ointment.”

“It stings,” protested Legolas, his cheeks burning. It would not have stung so badly, he knew, were his senses not already so heightened by Gimli’s very proximity, but as it was –

Gimli peered down over Legolas’s shoulder and laughed. “It cannot sting too badly,” he said. The strokes of his hand up and down Legolas’s back lengthened, the motion of his fingers and the slickness of the salve awakening other, more delicious thoughts in Legolas’s mind. “But _that_ must wait until I have finished here.”

* * *

Back at the main camp in Ithilien, a group of elves was having a hushed discussion.

“We made them,” Lim said, indicating hirself and Duvaineth. “Our contribution is finished. By all rights, someone else ought to deliver them.”

“I have never known you to be so eager to avoid work, Lim,” said Eithon, but ze only stared at him and he closed his mouth, lest his willingness to speak up draw undue attention to him.

“This ought not be so difficult,” said Hadril impatiently. “The signs of disturbance have leveled; all reports of activity indicate that they have found a base – and, if the word of the trees from that area is to be trusted, a shelter as well. Surely they will be inside so that if we time our approach correctly, we will neither disturb them nor be disturbed ourselves.”

“Do I hear you volunteering, Hadril?” said Lim, hir eyebrows raised.

She fell silent.

“Are we certain they will be needed at all?” ventured Damion. “Surely they will be fine for a few days without . . .”

“Gimli is a mortal,” Hadril reminded him witheringly. “He will notice his hunger even if Legolas does not, and will suffer worse from going without.”

“Legolas is too occupied with a different sort of hunger,” Damion muttered, and a smattering of chuckles broke out among the group before they remembered the task at hand and sobered up.

“But if he will notice his hunger,” Eithon pointed out, “perhaps they will seek sustenance on their own without our assistance.”

“And we should take the risk, now that they have found a single location, that they might venture out of it again?”

Silence fell among the group once more.

At last Faimes sighed, long and heavy. “And so we see how the courage fails in the hearts of Mirkwood’s finest warriors,” she said. “I will do it, since I seem to be the only one here who dares offer assistance.” She swept her long braid over one shoulder and stepped into the middle of the circle, accepting the bundles Lim and Duvaineth handed her amidst murmurs of gratitude.

“We are in your debt,” said Hadril at last.

“You already were,” said Faimes, and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “And doubt me not: after all this has subsided, I intend to collect.”

* * *

Sleep was not, it seemed, to come in any longer increments than an hour or two: it was typically Gimli’s preference to rest after strenuous bouts of lovemaking – but never before had he experienced so much in so little time. Ordinarily he would have expected a night of sleep at least to fully recover from one round of bedplay before beginning another – but nothing about this visit was ordinary. Legolas was insatiable, and no sooner had Gimli closed his eyes and begun to relax towards rest than his attention was demanded again . . . and again.

It was not long, however, before other mortal needs reasserted themselves. He had managed to pry himself away often enough to relieve himself when the need arose, but now as he stretched awake, his stomach let out a long gurgling growl. The sound seemed to echo in empty space, and he became suddenly aware of how hollow he felt – how long it had been since he had eaten.

“Legolas,” he said. “Much as I want you, I find myself in more urgent need of food.”

“Oh!” Legolas started beside him. “Yes, of course – I am sorry. I have nearly forgotten how it feels to hunger for anything but you, but – I am sure I too would benefit from eating, and it is inexcusable for me to have kept you so long away. Come – we will go in search of something.”

“Wait – let me dress,” Gimli began, but Legolas was already crawling to the entrance of their small shelter. It gave Gimli a pleasant view indeed, but suddenly Legolas gave a small “oh” of surprise – and then he burst out laughing.

“What is it?” said Gimli.

Legolas turned on his knees and shook his head at where Gimli was fumbling in his pack for the clothing he had brought and had no occasion yet to wear. “No need for that, _meleth_. It seems my companions would prefer for us to stay where we are.” He spread a series of cloth bundles on the ground before Gimli.

Gimli’s stomach grumbled again as Legolas unpacked each one in turn: a jumble of ripe blackberries; some kind of nutty bread; strips of cooked meat – still warm, Gimli realized, which meant it must have been delivered very recently – and wild onions; even a bit of honeycomb wrapped in waxed cloth. All clearly prepared and delivered for them . . . and Legolas’s companions were the only ones who would have known to do such a thing.

Gimli flushed boiling hot at the thought of what they might have heard.

“That was - thoughtful of them,” was all he managed.

Legolas sighed. “I am sure they think of themselves more than of me. I will have many apologies to make after this is finished, no doubt.” He gazed down at the food for a long moment, and then back up at Gimli. “But in the meantime, we ought to take advantage of their kindness, yes?” He plucked the largest, juiciest berry from the pile and held it up to Gimli’s lips.

“I suppose so,” Gimli said, and opened his mouth to accept it.

* * *

The motion of Legolas’s hips stuttered: uneven, jerky thrusts that left Gimli groaning, bracing his elbows against the ground and pushing back against the irregular motion. It humbled him, the newness of it, Legolas’s willingness to learn – and he could feel the hesitance in Legolas’s motions, the battle between desire and caution as he struggled to overcome his inexperience to bring Gimli pleasure. Legolas’s eyes were squeezed shut, his forehead gleaming with sweat, his teeth caught in his lower lip. The sight of his face, rapt in almost pained pleasure, dragged another moan from within Gimli’s chest, a sound echoed in Legolas’s throat and in the next roll of his hips.

“Yes” – Gimli panted – “wonderful – yes – lovely” – and Legolas was clearly beyond words, the line of his throat taut, his hair sliding off his shoulders with each toss of his head, his moans a constant sound that rose and fell with the uneven rhythm of their bodies moving together – not quite in tune, not yet, but that would come – it would –

“Gimli,” Legolas managed, “Gimli – I” – and Gimli was not ready, not just yet, but he would not hold Legolas back, not now, and he clutched at Legolas’s hips, rocking him closer in wordless permission.

Legolas cried out and came, his body shuddering and then melting all at once. He collapsed atop Gimli, sweat-slick and gasping, draping over Gimli like a blanket even as he slipped out of Gimli’s body.

Gimli kissed Legolas’s bare shoulder. “Good?”

“Mmm.” Legolas wound his hands into Gimli’s hair. “Wonderful.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gimli shifted beneath Legolas, thinking to get a hand between them to tend to himself. Legolas seemed content to lie there, and he would not complain of a blanket of elf while he satisfied himself.

But Legolas shot upright as soon as he moved. “Oh,” he said, “you are still – I am sorry, _meleth” –_

“You need not apologize,” Gimli said. “I can forgive your . . . eagerness. So long as it does not become a habit.” He winked.

“No, no, it will not,” Legolas promised, scrambling up to take Gimli in hand. “After your halls are built and we are wed before your people, I will give you the wedding night you hoped for.”

“You need not” – Legolas’s hand closed around him and Gimli lost his words.

But Legolas did not. How quickly he had moved from wordless pleasure to earnest promises was beyond Gimli’s current ability to fathom, but he continued speaking even as Gimli groaned beneath the ministrations of his hand. “I know this is not how you would have had it, but once this has passed we can take our time.” His strokes were smooth and even, at odds with the urgency in his voice: the motion of one most familiar with this act, and Gimli would have laughed had he the breath for it. “I will sing to you – and hold you – and take my time braiding your hair” - 

“Legolas,” Gimli groaned, his hips jerking in rhythm with Legolas’s strokes. “I do not know – why you seem to think this - is an unpleasant way to spend my time – _ahh_ – but” – He lost the words in another moan, wrung from deep within him. Legolas gasped at the sound, and that sent Gimli over the edge, his body shuddering at last in the peak of his pleasure. 

Once he was spent, all his strength melted from him and he lay back in a dazed, boneless puddle. Legolas wiped his hand off on the fur spread beneath them and settled back atop him – but still tension radiated from him. “I would not be a poor host,” he muttered, seemingly not ready to let go the thread of the conversation just yet. “I had so many hopes and plans that I have been too distracted to bring to fruition; already I have been little help to my companions, and now you are here and all I can do is tumble you over and over like a rabbit in the midst of mating season, with no thought for anything but another litter.”

Gimli laughed languidly and cradled Legolas’s head in one hand, feeling Legolas’s cheek tilt into his palm like a cat’s. “I cannot speak to your companions,” he said, running a thumb up and down Legolas’s smooth cheekbone. “But if you think I find anything about this visit objectionable, then perhaps you have some things yet to learn about these matters that even natural ability cannot teach you.”

* * *

For the most part, work in Aglarond moved just as smoothly in Gimli's absence as it would with him present – such was the nature of dwarvish projects when everyone involved knew their business. A few plans were set aside for his inspection, and he would, of course, have final approval on all projects – but otherwise he was hardly missed.

Which did not, of course, mean his absence was not discussed.

"I would wager he has forgotten about us entirely," lamented Horvari, never one for understatement. "Away on a woodland sojourn, while the rest of us toil in his absence."

"Mmm," said Bera, still sketching busily. Until construction on the separate halls was begun, the dwarves all ate, slept, and worked in the same place – so while the others had long since abandoned their plans in favor of bread and ale, she was yet surrounded by pages of notes.

"A woodland sojourn indeed," snorted Narin. "Out under the trees singing to the stars, no doubt. His time around elves must have addled his wits."

"Mind your tongue," Bera warned, not even looking up from her notes.

Horvari was already puffing up. "And what do you mean by that, Narin? Do you challenge Gimli's soundness or his devotion?"

"Peace, peace!" Narin backed down. "I only mean that I cannot fathom what would draw a dwarf to leave such a magnificent city of stone for the dubious pleasures of the forest." He sighed. "Surely even now he sits listening to elves make up tales about the constellations, or some other strange and flighty elvish custom. I cannot imagine the hospitality of the woodland elves has anything of _substance_ to recommend it."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nan i’aear ah in elin_ = “By the sea and stars!”


	5. Chapter 5

Gimli was exhausted.

He now understood how Legolas had been surprised, when he had first arrived, to learn that it had been nearly a month since their parting; if this were any representation of his days and nights, it was no wonder that time had blurred so for him. Gimli himself hardly knew how long he had been here, for the usual rhythm of sleeping at night and working during the day had been so disrupted that only the sight of the sky gave him any indication of the time. He might sleep a few hours, then wake to Legolas’s hands wandering over his body, indulge for some time in the attention and enthusiasm of his lover, then drift away again. Periodically they would step outside their makeshift shelter to find that their elvish benefactors had left them more food – but once he had convinced Legolas to keep their encounters to this one space, they had hardly seen any more of the forest.

What had he expected from this visit? Sitting peacefully on the bank of a stream, perhaps; feeding one another berries and skipping pebbles into the water. Watching the elves at work, listening to Legolas’s explanations of the plants and animals and natural phenomena that so delighted him. Then, in the evenings, sitting in the circle of Legolas’s arms around a campfire, listening to elven-song – as he had done on some fine evenings in Minas Tirith when the elves had held their moonlight revels – before retiring to bed and there indulging in the pleasure of one another’s bodies.

For some of this he had expected, but – not this much. Not this intensely. And Gimli loved and desired Legolas; he would never tire of Legolas’s body, would never take for granted the privilege of touching him, coaxing moans of delight and relief from his beautiful mouth; but – but he was so tired.

And Legolas seemed exhausted as well; even despite his distraction, Gimli could not help but notice it. It was no wonder that he had greeted Gimli with such desperation, if he had hungered thus since their parting . . . but it seemed to have taken a greater toll on him than he would admit. There was a strained quality to his voice sometimes, an edge behind his eyes that echoed Gimli’s own exhaustion – and it only stood to reason, after weeks of relentless craving, that he would be more urgent than enthusiastic now.

But for all that Gimli understood and sympathized – and for all that he truly desired Legolas in turn – his mortal body had limits that could not, despite his reluctance to admit it, match the seemingly-endless stamina of his elven companion. He could not go on much longer than this with so little sleep, with so little time to recover in between.

He would tell Legolas this, he promised himself. He would be clear that it said nothing of his desire, but only of his tiredness; that if Legolas desired, Gimli would be happy to aid him in tending to himself. That he did not wish Legolas to stop, or go elsewhere, or make any of the concessions he had offered to ease Gimli’s comfort. That together, they would come through this stronger than before.

All this, he resolved, he would say to his husband.

Once he had taken a nap.

* * *

Gimli was beautiful when he slept.

He was beautiful all the time, of course, but there was something about the sight of him asleep that had moved Legolas since early on – since before even they had begun their courtship. Something about the way his eyelashes rested against his cheeks – longer than Legolas had ever imagined them to be, before being allowed this closeness – the way his chest rose and fell with the steady breath of deep slumber; the soft slackness of his mouth. It was a sweet vulnerability, a display of trust that honored and humbled Legolas –

One that reminded him not to betray it, even by waking Gimli prematurely.

Legolas drew his lower lip into his mouth and chewed it ferociously, hoping to use the pain to draw his mind away from the temptation. It had been nearly a week; mortals needed more sleep than elves, and he had allowed Gimli hardly any. He could not wake him up now.

Not even if the moonlight did throw the powerful lines of Gimli’s shoulders and chest into perfect relief, the bold patterns of his tattoos standing out on his skin; not even if he did stir in his sleep just enough to disturb the blanket and slide it off a corner of his bare hip . . .

He would just straighten the covers, Legolas promised himself. That was all.

But ah, it was impossible to remove his hand from Gimli’s body once it had come to rest there; Legolas trembled, unable to move away yet unwilling to press any harder. He tried to control himself with slow, gentle circles over Gimli’s hip, as light as he could, teeth still sunk in his lip, holding back his ardor . . .

“Hmm?” Gimli grunted. Legolas froze, but Gimli’s eyes had already blinked open. “Legolas?”

“I am sorry,” Legolas blurted, snatching his hand away. “I did not mean to wake you” –

“But _you_ are awake, I see,” said Gimli, his eyes flicking down and a sleepy smile playing over his lips. “Such is the nature of elven appetite, it seems!”

“No, I” – Legolas’s stomach twisted. “I did not mean – I would not have” – Was it only appetite? They had never told him that love might come so tangled up in this _hunger_ , that this craving for his lover’s company might come at the expense of Gimli’s comfort. He had always thought that the act of lovemaking must be solely a delight, but – was this what Gimli thought of him? Was this all he had become: merely an appetite to be satiated?

Gimli laughed gently. “Well, I am awake now,” he said, reaching out. “So come here and let me satisfy you.” He pulled Legolas down on top of him, and for a few moments the gnaw of shame in Legolas’s belly was dissolved in the intensity of Gimli’s attentions, and he dared to believe that this bliss might at least be shared between the both of them.

After, though, as they lay curled against one another, Gimli chuckled drowsily. “You do not need to wake me, next time.”

Legolas started. “I . . . what?”

“I know you need this,” said Gimli, serious now, “and I would not have my limitations be a hardship to you. If you find yourself in need while I am asleep, you may take care of yourself, and I will not be offended.”

“That is what I would have done,” Legolas said breathlessly. “I – truly, I would not have woken you; I would have found somewhere else” –

“That is not what I mean,” said Gimli. “I offer myself, if it would bring you greater pleasure. I know you mean me no harm, and that you will not take advantage of my trust. If my touch is what you need to satisfy yourself, you may take it without waking me.”

Legolas’s mouth fell open in horror as he realized what Gimli was offering. “No,” he said, “no, I could never.”

“It would not be amiss,” promised Gimli. “I trust you, and I give my permission.”

“No.” The knot in Legolas’s stomach grew tighter. “I would never – even with your permission, I could not” –

“Peace,” said Gimli, stroking his side with a gentle hand. “I require nothing of you. I only wished you to know that, should you need it, the offer stands.”

Legolas could not speak. He attempted frantically to reorder his thoughts, to explain why – what was so devastatingly wrong with that offer, with the thought that he might ever, in any situation, be tempted to take it. How might he explain – and did he dare try?

Before he could decide, Gimli let out a soft snore.

Of course he had fallen asleep again, despite the weight of the subject; how could he have done anything else, when Legolas had allowed him so little rest? And he must be more exhausted even than Legolas had thought before, since he had been desperate enough to make that offer. The guilt still squirmed in Legolas’s belly, worse than before – but now nothing warred with it, no temptation to touch. Legolas looked at Gimli’s body, soft in sleep and vulnerable with misplaced trust, and he swallowed hard as disgust at himself rose in his throat.

Surely it would not last – how could it, when nothing had lasted before? – but Gimli’s words had done what had seemed impossible: the burn of Legolas’s desire cooled, congealed in the pit of his stomach. One of his hands still lay on Gimli’s belly, but even that amount of touch repelled him now; he could feel the warmth and vitality of his husband below him, and his own hand suddenly felt heavy with the sickening power to crush all that into nothing.

He withdrew, slowly at first so as not to wake Gimli with sudden motions, but as soon as he was far enough away he scrambled to the entrance of their shelter with ungraceful haste. As though – what? He might protect Gimli from himself if he could but put enough distance between them? That was folly, he already knew it, for he would never be able to create that distance again. Legolas might have known shamefully little in preparation for his own marriage, but he knew this much: the bond, once made, could not be unmade. And he could not want it to be undone, even now, even after all this. Even after all he had taken from Gimli already: his rest, his touch, his love, his _concern_ –

But there were lines Legolas could not cross. _Would_ not, he promised himself, clinging to what felt like the last shreds of his sanity, of his own restraint. He would not hurt Gimli any more than he already had. No matter what, he would not.

All the same, he dared not draw any nearer to Gimli for the rest of the night.

* * *

The sound of raindrops on the leaves and the wood of their roof had been faint before, nothing but a soft susurration underlying a peaceful not-quite-morning. But it seemed louder now in the wake of Legolas’s words, in the silence that followed his outpouring of misery. They were dry yet inside their shelter – their work proved true, and their roof held – and so it felt as though they were suspended in the in-between of the night and the morning, wrapped in the mist and the rain-damp smell rising from the forest floor. The in-between of Legolas’s confession and . . . whatever Gimli would say in response.

For what would he say? The longer he held his silence, the more certain Legolas would be that he was concocting comforting lies – and yet all he had thought over the last few days was rearranging itself in his head, tiny clues he had failed to notice falling into place beside recent stronger suspicions . . . and he could not think to speak until he had ordered it.

He allowed the stillness to hold a moment longer – better to wait too long than to say the wrong thing – and kept his hand on Legolas’s back, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Legolas was tense beneath him and Gimli was reminded suddenly of the way the elf himself had gentled Arod at the entrance to the Paths of the Dead, holding his head and singing to him in a soft voice that had soothed even Gimli, even that slightest bit.

Would that he could do the same thing now! – but he was no elf and Legolas, for all he had teased him, no woodland creature. So he must rely on his words, insufficient as they might be.

“Legolas,” he said, as gently as he could amidst the pulsing shock of Legolas’s first abrupt declaration. There were many ways he might begin, but this seemed the most urgent matter to address – more important than any of the rest. “You are not unworthy of my affections.”

Legolas made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh, a sob, or anything in between. “So you say.”

“Because it is the truth.” Legolas’s hands were wound so tightly into his own hair that Gimli did not dare to touch it, though he yearned to pluck at the fraying marriage braid. “Do you not trust me to have made that judgment for myself before I wed you?”

“You did not know what trouble I would be before you wed me,” said Legolas, his voice muffled in his knees.

“I do not see you as a trouble.” He had not forgotten, of course – it would have been impossible to forget – but perhaps he had not fully appreciated in all this time that this was new to Legolas in a way that it was not to him. Unbidden every jest he had made rose up in his mind, every playful barb, until he could have choked on the guilt of it. “If I have said anything to make you feel thus over the last few days, I am so sorry. I promise you I did not mean to imply” –

“It is not that,” Legolas interrupted. He turned his head very slightly to the side, most of his face still buried in his knees, but one eye blinked mournfully up at Gimli. “I see it not in what you say, but what you do. How can you gaze at me with bloodshot eyes, exhausted from a week without sleep, here in a slapped-together shelter of sticks and leaves rather than the crystal caverns you love, and tell me you have no regrets?”

“It is not _slapped-together_.” There was more he might have responded to, but he could not help it. “You might show some respect for a dwarf’s craft.”

“But it is not your craft!” Legolas would not be dissuaded. “None of this is your chosen art, but you are here because of me, only for me to worry at you like a hunting dog with a piece of meat, to – to _use_ you” –

Gimli had to interrupt him at that, for this misunderstanding could go no further. “That is not how I see it, Legolas; please believe me.” The elf’s skin was chilled under his hand, in the way it became only in such moments of bleakness, and Gimli fought the urge to pull the fur out from beneath them to wrap around his shoulders. For now, he ventured no more touch than the gentle motion of his hand against Legolas’s back. “I forget this is new to you, but from one I love and trust as much as you, from someone already sharing my bed, that is not something I would think to find amiss. I had thought of it as” – And how to say this? “Say, merely a game. And as I had told you the rules, it would not be a misuse.”

Legolas swallowed thickly, his shoulders hunching tighter around his head. “Perhaps not to you, but for me – I cannot tell you what it meant to hear that you think me capable of such a thing. Faced with such an offer, I cannot help but wonder to what lengths I could be driven? And even if it does not burden you, as you claim – if I could even come close to crossing that line, what am I becoming? I feel I do not know myself any longer.”

Again, such a desperate plea demanded a swift answer, and again Gimli could not speak, sorting through all that Legolas had said and wishing that the right words would arise fully formed in his mind. Still Legolas did not look up at him, only the peek of one eye and tearstained cheekbone visible between his crunched limbs and the curtain of his hair – did not even move, still tense beneath the weight of Gimli’s hand on his back. At last Gimli let it fall away and shuffled to the side on his knees, trying to get into better position.

“Will you not look at me, love?” he coaxed. “Perhaps if you can see the truth in my eyes it will be easier for you to believe me when I speak.”

Legolas raised his head just slightly, but did not uncurl: his arms drew even closer around his knees, his body a bundle of tight-wrapped wire. The sight of his wet, plaintive eyes wrung something in Gimli’s heart. How could he have failed to notice such misery?

Still he could not work out how to begin; Legolas’s emotions were a tangled knot, and he could begin with only one thread. He chose one, hoping it would not tangle the whole mess up further, and tugged.

“Do you really think you are using me?” he asked.

Legolas shrugged, the ball of his body rocking with the motion of his shoulders. “That is how it feels, I confess it.”

Here at least, Gimli might find some way to reassure him. ‘You may not believe me when I tell you that is not true,” he said, “but perhaps you will accept the truth of my body. You have not been the only one satisfied over these last days, Legolas.”

Legolas blinked, perhaps shaken by that thought, and Gimli pressed his advantage. “I understand the feeling that you have lost control – rather, I do not understand, I cannot understand, but I believe you when you tell me. But I am well versed in the ways of desire, and I beg you to believe me that it is no crime to want. Indeed,” he tried a small sly smile, hoping a touch of lightness would ease Legolas’s spirits rather than burden them further, “it is flattering to me. I love you and I want you, and it is not a hardship to know that you want me as well.”

“Is it not?” The bitter edge in Legolas’s voice wavered, attempted irony giving way to hurt. “Even when you leave your people behind because you are worried for me; when I give you no pause for rest and must even be reminded that you need a roof over your head? Perhaps you do not mind, but I cannot help feeling – before I would have been conscious; I would have noticed – I would be able to tear myself away. I worry that I have lost myself, that the craving has overcome all thought for others, that – I thought love was _generous_ , Gimli.”

He had tried so hard to keep back, to let Legolas speak rather than distracting him with touch, but those last words, tapering high with distress, undid him. He could not help reaching out, but paused before their skin could make contact, just near enough to feel the warmth of Legolas’s body – if it had been warm. “Legolas, I – may I touch you?”

“You do not need to,” Legolas said, quiet now, shuffling into an even tighter ball.

“I do not ask out of kindness to you,” Gimli said – and _ah_. Perhaps this was it, this was the snarl in the midst of the knot that he might manage to untangle. “I ask because it brings me comfort to hold you, and I wonder if it will comfort you as well.”

Legolas hesitated for a long moment – but just as Gimli was prepared to withdraw, to pull back and try to start again some other way, he nodded yes.

Very carefully, Gimli laid a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. The elf’s skin was still chilled against the warmth of his own, but Legolas leaned into the touch. Emboldened, Gimli slid his arm over, shifting closer on his knees until he could wrap his arm all the way around Legolas’s shoulders. “And this?” he said softly. “Is this all right?”

Legolas’s whisper was so soft that Gimli more felt than heard the way it stirred the hair at his ear. “Yes.”

“I love to be close to you, Legolas,” Gimli said. He kept his touch light, but he could feel Legolas’s tense shoulders softening beneath it. “I asked to touch you because I want to. Because I love the way it feels when you open up to me. Because I love the way you fit in my arms.”

Legolas let out a shaky breath at those words, and Gimli dared to pull him closer, just slightly. “I think I understand what you are missing now, my love. This visit is no hardship to me because I desire you. But you said ‘need’ before. That I did not _need_ to touch you. Is this what this has become for you, then? A need, rather than a pleasure?”

Legolas nodded, then shook his head. “I – I know not,” he said. “I take pleasure in your touch, but the demand for it is more than desire. And yet – on that first night, I was so much happier to please you than even myself; your satisfaction alone was enough to undo me. I worry that I have forgotten that in the craving for your touch – that I demand you rather than delight you. And I despise that, for I would not have you feel obligated to touch me; I would not have you feel that you are here only to fulfill a need.”

“And I would not have you feel that way, either.” Something inside Gimli was relaxing as well: here they were; here was the crux of the matter. “This is new to you, and I do not know how long it will take for this craving to wear off, but – I would not have your only knowledge of this act and these feelings be of need and desperation and haste. Even less would I have you tormented by guilt for a desire of something that pleases us both.” He turned his head to the side and placed a gentle kiss against Legolas’s bare shoulder – light, unrushed. “Rather, I would have you understand how it feels to _want_ , and to satisfy that want unhurriedly, gently, lovingly.”

Legolas shuddered against him, and Gimli knew not if it was from pleasure or grief. “I wish it, too,” he whispered.

“It will happen,” Gimli said fiercely. It was a rash promise, no doubt – how could he, so little acquainted with elvish ways, make any such guarantee – but in that moment he wanted it so fiercely, so achingly, that he could swear: it would happen. It would, if he had to reshape the world itself. Even the vagaries of elvish nature did not stand a chance against the stubbornness of a dwarf. “I know not when or how, but it will. Your body may do what it will for now; if this is natural to your kind, I will not tell you it is wrong. But I promise you that I will love you for as long as it takes – and then when it has run its course, we will take our time. You will learn how wonderful this can be; I will make sure of it.”

Legolas took a deep breath, his body shifting against Gimli – and then relaxing all at once, crumbling into Gimli’s hold like an elaborate castle into a loose pile of sand. Gimli caught him, pulling Legolas fully into his arms. Legolas’s head came to rest on Gimli’s shoulder and Gimli held him, stroking his hair and breathing with him, the tension draining from his own muscles as the rigid set of Legolas’s body loosened against him.

“Thank you,” Legolas whispered, his lips brushing Gimli’s neck. “Thank you, Gimli, I – I still feel I do not deserve you, but I cannot regret my fortune in having found you.”

“You deserve me and more,” said Gimli. He planted a ferocious kiss on Legolas’s temple, right at his hairline. “You deserve to be held and touched and cherished like the treasure you are. And I swear by all that I am that, no matter how long it takes, I will give that to you. Do you trust me?” Legolas hid his face in Gimli’s shoulder, but Gimli held him just as tightly as before, winding his fingers into Legolas’s hair and taking hold of the braid at last: the symbol of his promise, of his love, of the bond between them that would never be broken. Frayed it might be, after days of lovemaking and a night of Legolas’s restless fingers – but Gimli would be here to redo it as many times as it took. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered at last, his voice shaky and hoarse, muffled in Gimli’s shoulder – wondering, but not disbelieving. “Yes, I trust you.”

* * *

Legolas came awake slowly, slipping gracefully out of dreams more peaceful than any he could remember in what felt now like years. He had not quite slept, but his dreams had been nearly as deep and slow as true-sleep, lulling him into a kind of comfort he had not known – perhaps ever, in all his life.

He must have been exhausted indeed for such a rest, he thought, but something stirred behind him and all the memories came rushing back.

Gimli. Yes, of course – he remembered it now, Gimli rousing from his slumber and asking him what was the matter, the gentle teasing that had roused up a month's worth of shame and humiliation – Legolas closed his eyes now as it washed over him again – but then Gimli's gentle words and his gentle hands, promising him that no harm would come from it, that they would come through it together, that better memories awaited him at the end – and then easing him down to lie beside him, holding him close. Gimli lay still behind him now, arms snug around Legolas's chest; Gimli had soothed him into slumber; and Gimli's arms had protected the peace of his rest.

Legolas could not bring himself to move, to disturb the languid comfort in which they lay, but he brought one hand up to wrap around Gimli's own, where it rested against his heart.

"Hmm," murmured Gimli, voice warm but scratchy with sleep. It rumbled against Legolas's chest like the purr of a satisfied wildcat. "Good morning."

Legolas could not stay still; he had to see his face. He turned over in Gimli's arms, shuffling in an effort to keep as close as possible but create enough distance that Gimli's face was not pressed into his neck. Gimli's eyes were sleepy and soft – and fond in a way that dissolved all tension from Legolas's body before it had a chance to form. "And to you," he murmured, tangling his fingers in Gimli's beard. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than ever before, with you in my arms." Gimli's lips quirked in a tiny smile, as if he could see the way Legolas was melting at his words, his body filling with sunlight. He inclined his head to tuck a kiss against Legolas's collarbone.

"As did I," Legolas managed, unable to do more than clench and unclench his fingers in Gimli's beard as Gimli scattered kisses over his shoulders and throat, up the sides of his neck onto his jawbone. But Gimli's hands did not falter, the one still firm on his back between his shoulder blades, the other wandering slowly down his side to stroke at his hip.

Legolas gasped as Gimli's hand ventured lower. "Are you sure – I thought you" – For all they had spoken of it, he could not help thinking of Gimli’s exhaustion the day before, of all the implicit reluctance he could not quite convince himself he had only imagined. "I do not need – I mean, I am very calm today; if you do not want" –

Indeed, he found to his surprise that it was true, but Gimli only smiled. "Oh, love." He tilted his head up to kiss Legolas's lips now, very light and so tender that Legolas trembled. "I would not do this if I did not wish it. I told you this before, and I meant it: this act need not be a result of desperation, a craving that needs to be fed – or even an offering made in generosity. At its best, it is a mutual pleasure, shared out of our joy in one another's closeness and the way our bodies open up to one another." He moved his hand from Legolas's hip to his cheek, stroking the sensitive skin beneath his ear with his little finger. "I would have you now because I love you and it delights me to be yours. But I would only do that if I know the act will bring you equal joy, untainted by shame or pain." He met Legolas's gaze, his eyes serious now. "Do you want this?"

And Legolas, gazing down at him, awed and undone already by the love in Gimli's eyes, could only nod, his throat tight with emotion. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

“It feels strange to put clothes on,” said Gimli.

Legolas looked up just in time to catch Gimli’s careful sideways glance – the eyes twinkling in a way that suggested this might be a jest, if he chose to find it amusing, but that it might also merely be left as an offhand comment. The choice was for Legolas.

The distress of past days was still near enough that he was tempted to let it pass, but he swallowed instead. “Well,” he said bravely, “well, if you wished, I am sure I could remove them from you faster even than before.”

In a way it was true – the craving was not gone, not entirely, and his skin still thirsted for Gimli’s touch. But at the same time, he was almost relieved to dress: the fabric against his skin was less a torment and more a long-missed reminder of normalcy. It was the dubious comfort of armor before battle – a protective layer over his still-raw skin – but more than that, it was the relief of finally feeling in control enough to don it. To remove himself from the protective walls of the shelter where he and Gimli had spent so many days. To face the world again, with more courage and concentration than he had felt in weeks.

Gimli laughed. “A tempting offer,” he said. “But I think for now we had best stay with our original plan. Give your companions a bit of a surprise, perhaps.”

He tugged his tunic straight and reached for Legolas’s hand as they stooped beneath the entrance of their shelter and emerged at last into the open air.

The forest was damp and musky after the rain, but the sun filtered down through the tree branches, dappling the ground and reflecting off the tiny pools and beads of water that had collected in the hollows of leaves and at the ends of juniper sprigs. Legolas straightened for the first time in days and inhaled deeply, his heart lifting as the familiar forest air rushed into his lungs. “Well,” he said, pressing Gimli’s hand. “Are you ready to see Ithilien at last?”

Gimli smiled up at him. “Lead the way.”

Now, in his right mind at last, Legolas could see the gaps in his knowledge of the land, the scattering of his thoughts and plans. He could conjure vague memories here and there of discussions he had had with his companions – a trail here, a clearing there, redirecting this stream to drain into that grove – but was startled anew each time he noticed that some change had already been made. Had any of this work been done by his own hand, his mind merely too hazy to preserve the memory? Or had he truly missed so much that his companions had accomplished all this without him?

Guilt nagged again at his stomach, but before he could begin to indulge it, a whistle sounded from the trees: a single long note with an upwards trill at the end. One they had used many times for patrols deep in Mirkwood, for purposes with much higher stakes. _Safe?_

Legolas huffed an embarrassed laugh and looked down at Gimli. “Would you be opposed to company, _meleth?_ ”

Gimli gazed up in the direction of the whistle, though Legolas knew that he had no hope of spotting the elves who awaited his signal – surely they were too far away to risk witnessing anything. But at last he smiled up at Legolas. “Not at all, so long as you also welcome it.”

“I am sure they have waited long to thank you for relieving them of my company,” said Legolas. “Very well.” He tilted his head back and gave the responding whistle: the same long note, with a downward trill at the end this time. _Safe._

At once Legolas could hear the distant rustle of their approach - no attempt at stealth, not now - and within moments they were dropping from the trees, smiling broadly at him. There was a chorus of welcome – and a few teasing cries of “Welcome _back_ ” – claps to their shoulders, laughter all around. And though he had worried at first, Legolas found there was something comforting about this, something that soothed in the same way as had Gimli’s words of the previous day. They might tease, but they understood – and they did not blame him, but were rather merely glad to have him among them once more.

“Well,” said Hadril at last, after the round of greetings had died down. “Were you giving Master Gimli a tour of our forest?”

“I had begun,” he said, a little abashed, “but – in truth, I think we would both benefit from a more knowledgeable guide than I.”

Damion gave him a reassuring grin. “Then you will not mind if we join you?”

Legolas looked at Gimli and raised an eyebrow, and Gimli squeezed his hand and smiled back. “We would be delighted,” he said.

The others let Legolas lead when he could, but they passed soon into clearings and trails of which he had no memory at all – spaces that he remembered from their early arrival, but that were already so altered in look and feel that he hardly recognized them. Hadril took over the lead smoothly; Damion chipping in with enthusiastic additions, frequently clapping Gimli on the shoulder to direct his attention at some feature or another.

Legolas ought to pay closer attention himself, but he could tell that he would have to be shown in greater detail what had been done and what remained to do before he could return to work. Again, that knot of guilt tightened in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to ignore it – tried to focus instead on the pleasure of seeing his husband so at ease among his friends, this dwarf who had found such welcome in a group of elves.

He did not notice he had lagged behind until Faimes fell into step beside him.

“I am glad to see you feeling better,” she said quietly.

“Not wholly better, perhaps,” Legolas confessed, for he thought it might take some time for the last of the cravings – and the accompanying shame – to fade away completely. “But much, much improved from before. I – Faimes, I” – He faltered. “Thank you,” he said eventually, though it did not feel like enough. He had not been able to truly feel his gratitude for her before, too consumed in the fire within him; now, at last, he could at least attempt to express what her sympathy had meant. “You reached out when I did not know what was happening to me; you did as much to aid me as you could; I – I am in your debt.”

She smiled at him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “There is no debt,” she said gently. “Any trouble you may have caused is as nothing compared to what you suffered yourself; I – we all – wanted nothing more than to see you restored to yourself. This” – she waved a hand at him; a broad, expansive gesture that seemed to encapsulate all of the moment – “is repayment enough.”

He did not deserve such kindness, but if she was determined to give it, he supposed he could do nothing but accept it. And inside him, something calmed at the easy absolution, like salve on an internal wound, loosening and easing the tension within him. “Still, I am grateful,” he murmured. “Allow me that, at least.”

She stopped him with a squeeze of his shoulder. “If it will ease your mind, I accept your gratitude,” she said. “But there is nothing to repay.”

* * *

That night, Gimli and Legolas joined the elves around their campfire for the first time. Gimli had imagined doing this every night, and now he would be leaving the very next day, but once was better than none at all, and despite everything he would not have changed anything about this visit.

For now he sat nestled cozily between Legolas’s legs, leaning back against his husband’s chest while Legolas alternated between feeding him bites of bread and apple and toying lazily with his beard. He listened as the elves told their tales of the constellations, and even – at their eager request – joined in for the choruses of their simpler songs.

And then later, when everyone had parted for the night at last, he went with Legolas back to their little stick-and-leaf shelter and took his time stripping the elf of his garments, cherishing and caressing every bit of skin as it was revealed, swallowing his moans in long, sweet kisses. Making love to him, as he had yearned and promised to do . . . and then drifting towards sleep in the protective circle of Legolas’s arms, his head resting against Legolas’s shoulder.

Ultimately, he thought as the waking world slowly faded into dream, if this was what marriage to an elf entailed, it was worth all they had come through and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap! Thank you all so much for reading, especially those who have stopped to leave us comments. Your generous feedback has really kept us going throughout – *waves hand vaguely* – all this. This story has been such a wonderful and rewarding project throughout the whole process, both creating and posting.
> 
> Because it’s been so fun, actually, we’re not quite ready to let go of it just yet. There is plenty of bonus content for this story coming, in the form of various appendices, so keep your eyes out! We also have another plan for the story in the works, which will probably be posted on one of our other social media platforms at some point in the future. If you are interested in updates on that or the occasional extra (or maybe behind-the-scenes moment) to the story, also feel free to look for us over there. DeHeerKonijn is on [Tumblr](https://deheerkonijn.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/deheerkonijn) and Roselightfairy is on [Tumblr](https://roselightfairy.tumblr.com) and [Dreamwidth](http://roselightfairy.dreamwidth.org), both with the same username across all platforms. And if you want something to listen to, here is a link to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pg7eSXDecRxy0IqPqxd93) we made for this story (and which some of us may or may not have listened to over and over again).
> 
> Thank you all again for everything, and we will see you again soon!


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